


chains of seagrass

by FaultyParagon



Series: RWBY Fair Game [35]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Angst, Clover Ebi-centric, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fairgame, Falling In Love, Fishing, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Romance, Lifelong, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Merman Qrow Branwen, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Pilot Clover Ebi, Pining, Qrow Branwen-centric, Romance, could i make it anymore obvious, fair game, he was a pilot he was a merman, merfolk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: He asks if Clover is alone, his voice accented and thick and a little too loud, as if unused to the clarity that the air provides. Clover winces, blanches, says yes.When Clover asks him, words formed painstakingly through a ragged, hoarse throat, where Qrow calls home, he can only respond with a flick of his tail, a splash immediately swallowed by the endless tide beyond.Clover nods. Then, he points upwards. "Home," he breathes.Qrow understands. This creature has been abandoned, too.-aka Clover and Qrow spend many years together, always meeting upon the shore. FairGame merfolk AU.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: RWBY Fair Game [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898392
Comments: 112
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I planned this entire fic out in about 10 minutes. Let's see how long it takes for me to actually write it- all I'm left with is a hankering for seafood.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

It is a strange feeling, to refill his lungs with fresh air after so many moons trapped in the depths.

Qrow resurfaces silently, his appearance naught more than a slight break in the choppy waves. The light is instantly blinding, but he has no time to allow his weary body to recover; his hands are full of treasures, after all, and he wants little more than to put these burdens to rest at last, to ensure that nothing is swallowed back up by the force of the tide. Only a few miles remain between him and his favourite cove, and as long as humanity has not come to invade his tiny sanctuary during this months away, he shall soon be able to accomplish his task.

The cawing of gulls in the distance carries over the water as all sound does, striking his eardrums with an almost painful resonance after months of being underwater. Their screeching voices grate his nerves; he is never truly comfortable with the clarity the air brings, nothing muting the sound, unlike in his kelp forest. Despite the darkness of the water, there is a certain tranquility to be found in the _silence,_ and he will never truly become accustomed to the vibrancy, the _cacophony,_ of the surface.

He finally braves lifting his eyes to the sun. His pupils dilate, narrow, relax, adjusting at last to the waning rays of the day’s sunlight. The sky reminds him of salmon, he thinks; fresh, clean salmon, their bellies raw and glistening orange-pink in the light, puffy clouds veining through the air, fatty and serene and still. Silhouetted by those clouds are slight pinpricks of moving shadow, far-off, wings flapping as more squawks resound over the seashore.

He wonders idly what it would be like to fly. Gulls do not taste very good. He knows that for sure. Eating them is not enough to transfer their power of flight, however; there is a certain nostalgia which washes over him each time he catches one anyways, for their wings are hollow, the marrow in their denser bones clean. Their feathers are beautiful, white, light-as-air tufts far freer than dense crimson and black scales can ever be.

He briefly feels curious mouths nip at his hands, at the numerous tiny nothings which fill webbed fingers, trying to understand what could be carrying such brilliant light so close to the surface. Qrow shifts, his tail swishing to the side; it is enough, however, and the school of mackerel which had been nibbling at his claws with their filtered mouths swim off, a mere blur under the ocean waves, ready to be swallowed up once more by the tide.

He hugs his findings back to his chest. They are… they are precious to him. He shall not allow any creature to take them away, no matter how alluring.

However, he cannot wait here. The salty air burns his lungs, his gills spitting out more and more liquid the longer he stays exposed. His skin dries far too quickly; the minerals crystallize in his hair, turning each strand rough and coarse and stiff as the temperature drops, the final rays threatening to disappear over the horizon. There is not much time left till sunset.

He wants to see what his treasures look like in the light, though. That’s why he’s been gathering them all these past weeks, to enjoy their shimmer during the few summer months that he comes to the surface, after all; he does not get to enjoy these tiny pleasures often, and indulge while he is here, he shall. So, he clutches his bundle tight to his chest and recommences his journey eastward.

His body has always been far too lithe, far too powerful, for any creature of the sea to keep abreast with him. Even with his arms indisposed, too focused on clutching onto his bounty of sunken treasure, his tail flexes and coils and propels him forward with little difficulty, a white streak of foam left behind across the crests of waves in his wake.

The shoreline shall be coming up soon enough. From there, it is but a few hundred feet to the inlet, and within that, he can find his resting place; like clockwork, his body moves through these motions, not even needing his eyes to keep him on track. His heart is his compass, guiding him through the brackish water near the shores easily. For this, he is grateful to have gone through this routine time and time again for all of these years. It grants him more time to look at the setting sun, to ensure that he shall not be left behind.

Soon, he is within his haven. It is but a nook in the inlet, a tiny cavern in which he has placed all of his worldly treasures. There is not much left to his name: a collection of feathers in this corner from gulls and the occasional heron of summers past; a human-made pot of clay meant to hold flowers, cracked and crumbling and dusty; a small array of knives and harpoon tips which he has pulled out of himself time and time again, his own personal reminder of the hell in which his existence resides-

The bones.

He greets each skull in time, pressing his lips to smooth, white bone polished by lapping saltwater and time. They sit in a line, elevated on a higher perch where the water can merely lick their bones; this tiny cove is raised high enough above the water to ensure that no storm shall blow their bones into the depths, so he greets them all with practiced precision. “Heya, Tai,” he whispers. He moves to the next. “Hey, firecracker.” And the next. “Missed you, Summer.” And then, the last. “Hey there, kiddo.”

They are gone know. His pod has all but disappeared, be it thanks to these knives collected in this cove to the monsters of Grimm, their fangs and claws and glowing red eyes having taken his little ones by surprise. It has been many years since he has properly encountered the demons which infest his waters; but as the years pass, so too do his borders shrink. As of late, he knows that the presence of the Grimm becomes undeniable, their stench filtering through the ocean’s tides at the edges of his little home. They are part of the reason he spends so much of his year hiding in the kelp forests, building around him a cocoon of grass tucked under branches of coral. They are part of the reason he sleeps so much.

He has no reason to be awake as of late. Sleep is the best way to endure solitude.

…the sky is never as beautiful outside of summer months, anyways. There is no point suffering the dreary greys and pouring rains and aching, stifled morns of the rest of the year. He is far more content hiding away from the world during those months, tucked in his cocoon, waiting for the day he is gifted another glimpse of brilliant blue.

He snorts, the action causing water to spray from the collection cavities beside his gills. If he knew what was good for him, he would stay away from the surface. The others have not all disappeared for no reason, after all.

But he cannot stay away, for the sky beckons him, no matter how many heartbeats thud in his chest.

The sunlight shall slip behind the horizon soon. Frantically, he pulls out what he has been aiming for this whole time; the chest. It is a human’s handiwork- he is grateful for that, for not even the smartest octopus nor crab could ever claw their way into the intricate locking mechanism- which he had found in a wreck years past. Now, it houses naught but his simple treasures, collected in abandoned netting he finds off of fishermen’s boats polluting his ocean.

Without delay, he hauls over this year’s treasures and dumps them all into the chest. Tinkling, ringing, crashing; waves striking rocky shores, sea glass landing upon piles of their brethren. He sorts through each piece until he finds one that is clear and big enough to hold alone with ease in his webbed hands. Then, clutching it to his chest, he swims out of the cove, resurfacing just as the final rays are hiding away.

He raises the glass into the air. It is green, he realizes with a start- brilliant, shimmering emerald, refracting light a million ways, casting that colour into his eyes with an intensity that is nearly blinding. He does not look away. This shattered, sanded, rounded-out piece of sea glass worn down by time and brine had looked black in the cove, in the water. Now, it is _beautiful._

The sky reveals all, and the freedom it offers, unbarred by shorelines and netting, is more terrifying than any suffering he has faced. He loves it anyways.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back back again
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!

“It’s no cockpit, but you’ll make do, lad. We’ll help ya along the way. You’ll make do.”

Clover smiles, nods, waves goodbye and wishes good luck to the other men as they set out of their early morning voyage- and most of all, he hopes fervently that they are correct. Thankfully, they understand that it shall take a long, long time before he is ready to properly aid them on their vessels; as of right now, his legs are still too weak, his ribs are still too brittle and his heart is still too broken. Even the weight of this light pack full of beginner’s gear that the locals have provided him weighs down on his body far more than he would like.

A few months ago, and he would not have been here. Time is a cruel mistress, though, and the sky waits for no one.

The gulls caw and scream as they fly overhead, but he pays them no mind. The path takes enough of his attention, for his knees still wobble every once in a while as his boots slip upon gravel. He has never taken this path before, so each sensation, each tentative step, is new, frightening. It is narrow, still barely lit by the few scant rays which peek over the edge of the mountainside to the east; the sky promises to be fairly clear, though, giving him the perfect opportunity to finally step forward and find his footing upon the shores which shall become his home from now on.

At least, that is what the doctor recommends. His heart races frightfully enough to ache at the very thought of never again leaving behind this briny, sharp air ever again. He takes in a deep breath, but ends up coughing, for his body still rejects the salinity, the debris, the musk of the ocean carving out each pebble and stone left upon this shore.

He wonders idly whether it shall carve him up, too.

The waves are peaceful in the darkness of early morn. No strong tide pushes seafoam to the surface, providing a flat, glassy canvas upon which the few clouds trailing across a dark sky can reflect their image. He crests this grassy knoll leading up to the shore with a gasping breath, taking a moment to crouch down, massaging his straining calves and calming his heart; he cannot give up now, not when he is so close.

So, he carries onwards. Off to the south, he can spot the fishermen’s boats leaving harbour, heading out to make their first catch before the sun rises properly. His nose wrinkles in distaste at the scent of fish entrails and blood which is constantly lingering upon the harbour, emanating from the seafood market which supports this small coastal town. He should appreciate this place. It brings _life_ to this community which he has chosen.

It is hard to, though. It shall take time. He does not know how long, but… one day, perhaps he will smile at the sight of those boats leaving shore.

Off in the distance, a few hundred yards away, he spots the small, crumbling pier which the fisherman had told him of. “Get used to the water,” he tells himself gently, steeling his nerves for the trek down this incline with his already-aching feet. “Get used to it. It’ll be easy enough. It’ll be fine.”

As his feet carry him towards his destination for the day where he shall mill about and try his best to get the hang of leisurely fishing whilst his body recovers from what has crippled him for months, for a moment, his breath catches in his throat, eyes widening as his gaze lands upon the waves out in the distance. If he looks closely enough, the seafoam cresting the highest waves forms shapes and swirling patterns against the dark waters, all of which look frighteningly like _bodies_ -

 _No,_ he scolds himself, shaking his head as he brings his attention back onto the rocky, gravel-laced path beneath his feet. _That would be insane. I just need to calm down._

“Get used to the water.”

He shall. If nothing else, his body is broken but his will is strong. He shall learn to conquer this calm sea before him, as he had tamed the sky all those years before.

Setting up a small day camp for himself is easy enough. The pharmacist had been kind to him as always, giving him food for the day; he lays his belongings out upon the pier in a small circle, taking off his boots and hanging his feet off the ledge tentatively. The first kiss of the waves upon his toes makes him recoil reflexively, bile instantly rising into his throat, his knees rising into his chest and body curling up protectively.

_Get used to the water._

He lets his feet hang low, forcing himself into the water. It is freezing, just as expected; his body rejects the contact with every fiber of his being, but he maintains his position, ensuring that he is there until the kiss of saline upon his toes is no longer enough to cause him to retch.

Once he is acclimatized to this, he pulls himself back to the earth mentally and sets up the fishing line just as demonstrated by the old man who lives two doors down from his own small, bare bungalow. It is easy enough, and his fingers are more than capable of fine-tuning wire and thread, although these finer mechanics are still clumsy with lack of practice. He knows that after a few days of repeating this, he shall be better. For now, however, it takes him longer than he would like, but he finally is able to drop a lure into the water, waiting for whatever may arrive.

Nothing comes to nip at his heels, his bait completely unloved by any wildlife which may have been in the area. He hums gently to himself- the sound carries beautifully across the ocean, he finds. It is fascinating, the way his low tenor is able to resonate with the waves as sunlight begins to sparkle off crests of the growing tide; the sound is utterly alien to him, so different from the muffled, wispy resonance of his former home. Cockpits are far too ventilated to properly be able to sing like this, so the sound carries off into the distance.

He is almost able to find some semblance of peace when his eyes begin to wander away from the waters, trailing down the coastline. It is a curious image, he finds; smooth, straight shores which begin to undulate, begin to curve, begin to rock back and forth into a messy cove tucked into the edge of the bay, the rocks jagged and menacing even at a distance. He shudders and takes a moment to calm himself, to breathe in and out, taking in the harsh, salty brine of the sea into his lungs, feeling his body simultaneously shudder at the scent and calm at oxygen flooding his veins.

_I should’ve taken the job on the base._

It is an errant thought, and he immediately feels shame in it, but he feels it nonetheless. He knows that if he had done so, he would have never moved on- so for that, he feels no regret. At the very least, he can say that he retains some of his bravery if nothing else.

He tears his eyes away from the cove, from the darkness of the rocky structures. Instead, his eyes drag down the beach. Nothing catches his eye, the rocky shores simply sparkling here and there with the rising sun-

And then, he sees it.

A body.

He is afoot before he registers the action, his knees suffering with the effort of breaking into this sprint after so many weeks of inactivity. He cannot stop himself- the figure he spots seems to be halfway submerged in the water, a decidedly-male torso bare upon the edge of the water.

However, before he can even get off the short pier, the clatter of his fishing rod onto the wood captures his attention- and in time with the sound, a wave washes ashore, smothering the still figure.

His feet slow to a crawl. He stops. The figure is gone.

_It is just a hallucination. I’m just seeing things._

For a moment, his heart continues to race, pounding between his temples, every nerve buzzing with adrenaline. Then, he begins to laugh- gentle, slow, burbling out of his lips and growing with every heartbeat until it uproarious, the man throwing his head back as relief and disbelief consume him.

He has been listening too much to the old men who haunt the local pub, he thinks. The fishermen constantly speak of spirits of the sea, of creatures so beautiful and deadly that they could lure anyone into the depths. They had warned him aplenty whilst he had still been wheelchair-bound; apparently, they had taken great joy in watching his incredulous reactions as they had told him of all the children in their days who had been spirited away by creatures so divine, the mere sight of them would cause a man to weep.

 _A kiss to grant immortality,_ he thinks ruefully once his laughter finally dies down. He limps to his fishing pole, silently grateful that nothing had decided to bite in his absence; settling back into his spot, he takes a sip of coffee from his nearby thermos and looks up at the slowly-dawning sky. _A union that can cure any illness. Feasting on their flesh causes invincibility. What absolute nonsense._

Strangely enough, his mood is lighter for the rest of the day. And when he manages to come back to the village in time to greet the fishermen after their third haul of the day, he is able to proudly show the 3 meager fish he has been able to capture despite all of his inexperience. They are proud of him; it is a start, and for now, that is enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got another chapter of this up! Let me know how what you think if you're reading along :D

If the ocean is his home, the sky is his dream.

None of the creatures in the ocean quite feel safe with Qrow. He understands why- the eons have erased his peoples’ existence from collective memory, and without others by his side, he is regarded as an oddity. A monstrosity. They swim away on sight, leaving him amidst forests of flowering seagrass, the kelp dragging him to the lower depths whenever their leaves can find purchase against his skin, his scales.

He does not mind it, though. He is used to being alone, and the flat stones surrounding the hidden side of the cove are perfect to sunbathe upon; his view of the sky is perfect from there. It is enough to watch the world shift, the colours changing, the birds flying across the expanse. It is enough.

It is still just the earliest days of the summertime, allowing him more than enough opportunity to search the shallows for more sea glass to add to his collection. He spends countless hours sitting upon a rock hidden away in his tiny cove, holding up each piece one after the other to the sunlight; the refracted light dances across the craggy walls of his abode, their rounded edges worn away by the ocean tides, creating a touch that glides across his skin luxuriously. And at the end of each day, he separates the examined glass from the unexamined on two sides of the chest, silently thanking humanity for providing him with these little treasures. He does not have much to thank humanity for, but he shall always appreciate his trinkets.

However, there is little else positive which he can attribute to this race which has taken over his world over the past hundreds of years. When he was young, he adored sleeping on the sands, comfortable to bake in the low tide pools while allowing his tail to remain moist and comfortable in the shoals; he cannot do that these days. Humanity is so much more prevalent in the water than during the days of his youth, and by the _gods,_ they are _loud._ The piercing sound of foghorns and fishing boats coming and going at all hours of the day and night are painful to listen to, and his sensitive ears are never ready to handle them, no matter how many years pass. The early morning ones are the worst, always startling him into a flustered frenzy the moment he opens his eyes once more; so, he stays underwater at night, falling asleep to the light of the moon filtering through the water, wrapped up in a blanket of kelp, his head resting upon a bed of red algae.

This is how he spends his days; leisurely exploring the cove, collecting sea glass and bringing new treasures to his summer home, all the while ignoring the blaring horns and inescapable cacophony of the humans who have made their living by invading his home. Occasionally, the creatures of Grimm broach his borders, entering the shallows in hopes of catching new prey. He quite likes those days, in all honesty- it is a change of pace, and nothing is ever quite as satisfying as extending the claws usually hidden within webbed hands and rending dark, shadowy, acrid flesh to tattered shreds. It makes him feel a modicum of power, of strength.

In his mind, he tells himself that it is revenge- that he is being good to the little ones he has lost. However, as he strikes down another monster without delay, he knows it is not true; just like the sea glass he collects, the edges of his wounds have been smoothed out over time, and the scar tissue covering those holes within his heart refract light in a way he knows would be beautiful, should he hold them up to the light.

There is little point, though. He cannot see within himself, and there are no others around to see him, so it is naught but him and the Grimm. Their bodies always disappear, the ash left from their disintegrating forms swirling away with the tide. Their masks, however, do not. The small fish enjoy feasting on the shattered bone, and so he is always happy to supply a meal for them. If they are full and happy, then eventually, he shall be, too.

Perhaps this languid routine is the cause for his focus to shift so quickly, so effortlessly, onto this human who arrives upon his shores. There is simply nothing else to do.

Qrow first spots him just as the sun is beginning to strike the water, a male’s broad shoulders filling out those strange garments all the humans upon the boats seem to always bear. This creature is alone, though; he moves along the ground (what is that word… ‘walking’, is it?) with an unsteady gait, no grace to be found in stumbling movements that give him the atmosphere of a newborn seal pup, helpless and vulnerable. Qrow’s eyes follow him without much thought, the male stepping onto the small pier abandoned for decades by the humans and setting down handfuls of supplies. He watches the human unpack their bag with envy; if he had a bag like that, rather than just the nets stolen from lost boats, collecting his treasures would be far easier.

It is when this creature looks up to the sky, however, that Qrow finally, truly gets to take a look at him. His breath catches in his throat, gills stretching in surprise, mind racing to supply him with an explanation for how this human’s eyes can shimmer with the same intensity as his sea glass even without the strength of the sun to illuminate those irises.

They are green, Qrow realizes. The colour of the lightest grass bed upon shallow sediment. It is beautiful.

Transfixed, he finds himself settling comfortably into the shoals, watching this creature attempt to catch fish. A few times, he manages to lure one into taking the bait, but this male is not patient, it seems; he pulls in the line too early, his obvious frustration and inexperience clear as day in that expressive face. Qrow almost pities him, wondering whether it would be too obvious if he caught a fish and hooked it onto this human’s line for him. It is too dangerous, though, so he stays in his little spot, his pale chest blending in with the sand and stone around him, his dark, crimson and black tail hidden by the waters.

There are many moments that day when he thinks he should leave- the human is doing naught but waiting to catch fish which shall never arrive should he continue to kick at the water’s surface like that, even though the action appears to be mindless. Each time, however, he is stopped as the male lets out a long, weary sigh, chin rising to look up at a sky that shifts from the deepest indigo to the brightest blue, the sunny skies of early summertime filling the air. There is a longing in his eyes, an earnest, yet empty question which Qrow cannot discern from this distance; he wants to swim closer, to see what in the world this male is watching so intently in the heavens.

This desire is only amplified as the human begins to hum. Unlike the fishermen, however, there is something incredibly soothing, haunting, about this voice; it sounds frail, brittle, hollow. Sick. Like something has been carved away from a tone that was likely far more resonant once upon a time, but now, struggles to boom in the same way as the ships, as the sailors.

Qrow quite likes it, he thinks. It does not hurt his ears. It does pique his curiosity, however, for there is a mournful edge in his song, and Qrow… Qrow recognizes that sorrow.

He cannot find out any details about this creature, unfortunately, for the human spots him. Strangely enough, it is not fear nor repulsion that the creature bears when those brilliant jade eyes, shimmering in the sunlight, land upon Qrow’s still figure; instead, it is fear- _worry-_ a cry spilling from his lips with a fervent desperation which is simultaneously frightening and heartbreaking.

He only watches for a moment, but that moment is enough. The human looks as if he is about to weep, although his eyes remain dry.

Qrow flees. With the next wave, he pushes himself back into the water, swimming fast and deep until he is nearly half a mile from shore; that way, it is easy to loop around so the human does not watch him returning to the cove. He does not know what had caused the grief which has spilled forth unequivocally from this human’s eyes, but he finds that the image does not leave his mind even as he returns to the shore- even after the human is gone back to their village. Qrow merely takes a piece of glass from his chest and swims out to the sea in the human’s wake, holding it up to the setting sun, watching jade light filter into his own crimson eyes.

With the droplets of water rolling down his webbed fingers, down the flat planes of the glass… he wonders whether humans weep ocean tears, too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at last.
> 
> Let me know what you think if you're reading along!

It is not a hallucination. He is not losing his mind; the ocean has not stolen his sanity along with everything else. He can see the silhouette before him, clear as the daybreak which is slowly filling the world with light over the mountains to the east once again. It is still, but he can still see faint, subtle movements, proving it to be more than a nightmare, more than a figment of his imagination.

The figure laying bare-chested upon the sands is back.

He puts down his equipment as quietly as possible, his hook waiting in anticipation for his return. The rod and backpack are easy to leave behind, and with how efficient he has gotten over the last week of setting himself up, he knows he only needs a few minutes to finish preparing everything for another day of sitting upon that shambling pier. The past few days have been far more comfortable compared to his first upon the beach; with the weather heating up slowly but surely, he has grown bolder about allowing his feet to dip into the water, of choking back the bile which rises into his throat on instinct at the sensation. That is why he does not bother putting his boots back on, for his path shall take him along some of the softer sands. The water shall not harm him today.

He does not take the time to marvel at this fact, at this _progress_. It does not matter, for the figure upon the beach is truly _back._

It is only when he is halfway down the beach that the prone figure seems to notice him. Clover pauses, absolutely awestruck by the sight in the distance; the figure is hidden from the stomach down by a rock, but Clover is easily able to notice a few strange things from the get-go.

It is hard to ignore how crimson eyes capture the faint sunlight, smoldering embers watching his every move, whilst a pale, muscled chest does not move-

But the sides of a thick, corded neck _do._

He cannot tell what that movement is- only that it cannot be human. _The spirits are real,_ he thinks faintly, dizzy at the mere thought of what might be lurking behind that awaiting stone. _Gods, they were real, the fishermen aren’t crazy, I’m going to die-_

But even from where he stands, he can see that this creature radiates a strange beauty to it. It’s a man, he realizes quickly; dark hair seems to be drying in the sun, black laced with silver strands which shimmer in the salty spray, complementing the stubble growing on a pointed, long chin. High cheekbones and a stern, straight nose face him, direct and unwavering, although those red eyes echo a hint of fear as Clover approaches.

This face is beautiful, he thinks. Even while this far away, something about it draws Clover in. Although every part of his body is screaming to run away, to heed the warnings of all those who had tried to save this poor injured soul from his ultimate, untimely doom at the hands of the demons of the sea, his heart still longs to see what else there is to this unbelievable sight awaiting him.

So, he continues walking. His hands are held open, half to maintain his balance and half to show that he is not coming with the intent to harm. He moves slowly, his knees trembling from fear and from physical weakness, but he keeps going, eyes locked onto that unearthly, pale face watching him from just above the shallows.

Suddenly, the creature’s face twists in pain, a sort of haggard, haunting grief flitting across its features before the torso vanishes like an errant wave. Clover’s heart plummets to the sand- he had been barely a hundred feet away from the creature, he had been _so close-_ but as he shuffles forward, desperate to see any trace of the creature which might be left, a shadow passes overhead, a painfully familiar rumbling echoing through the air, the sound dancing across the waves.

It is an airship. Merely a commercial transport vessel, by the looks of it; it is likely carrying civilians to the nearest airport, if the relatively-small size of the engine is anything to go by. There is no way a ship of that size would be able to carry the fuel to get them over the sea, after all. It is not a vessel of note.

Clover’s heart aches for it, anyways. He wants to be up _there,_ not stumbling upon a kelp-covered seaside at low tide with the weak knees of a newborn fawn. He yearns for that freedom, that strength, that _air-_

_Life is different now._

He arrives at the figure’s little nook. It is gone, and somehow, he feels more alone than ever.

However, there is determination hidden within that loneliness- resolve within that heartache. He is not able to do what he loves anymore, but at the very least, he’ll allow himself to indulge in innocent curiosities.

…No one would miss him if a spirit of the sea stole him away, anyways.

And so, the next day, he does not bother taking out his fishing rod. He does not go sit upon the pier like always. Instead, as Clover arrives at the beach, his boots crunch across the rocky sands until he is a mere fifty feet away from where that strange figure had appeared both times. It is still early- the sun is hidden behind the mountain range, although the sky has begun to glow pink and ochre, silhouetting the craggy peaks in the distance- so the man would likely no longer be there.

The man sets up his tiny spot quickly, laying out the towel and blanket and cushion he had lugged upon an aching, sore back from his home. The ground is still uneven, but he accepts it easily; pins and needles and random aches and pains have haunted him ever since he had awoken in the hospital all those months ago, so he is not a stranger to ignoring unwanted sensation. His bag provides him the novel he has been reading lately, a calming, reflective piece lent to him by the carpenter a few weeks earlier, and his Scroll is laid at his side, a soothing piano melody echoing from the speakers.

It is when he is pouring himself a cup of coffee from the large thermos he has brought that the familiar head breaches the water. Clover’s breath catches in his throat as he watches water rolling down grey-streaked locks, slicked against the sides of this man’s head; thin lips spit out a tiny bit of saltwater as he clears his eyes of liquid, a strange film appearing over those almond-shaped crimson eyes which had been so captivating, so haunting, the other day, before the film disappears once again. Thick, dark brows furrow, eyes pressing closed before hands slightly too large, fingers slightly too long, lift to smooth that hair away, pushing it back out of his view to dry.

His skin is the colour of the sand, Clover realizes faintly. Translucent, pale- shimmering when the light hits it with a kind of ephemeral iridescence that seems like something out of a fairy tale. It is the colour of hard light-Dust, mined in such scarcity that every ounce of it is precious. When contrasted with those black strands, those blood-red eyes, those thin lips-

Clover blinks once, twice. The creature is still there, its lean face blending in with the rocky shore. _So… I’m not crazy after all._

Everything below the creature’s neck hidden by foam for he sits in what appears to be a little shelf in the water; the strange, unearthly figure’s arms lift out of the waves and cross, resting upon the stone. He lays his head upon them, watching Clover with a sense of wary curiosity in his hard stare.

Clover smiles nervously at the creature. The creature’s eyes widen- then, he nods in acknowledgement. Clover almost vomits when he realizes that the strange film which flickers across crimson is not a film at all, but a third eyelid, swiping from the outer to the inner corners. He manages to hold it in, instead raising the coffee cup to the creature in a terrified toast.

The creature nods again, then raises its own hand. The scarce sunlight peeking over from the east is just enough to illuminate a small scrap of sea glass held between what Clover can now see are webbed fingers, the skin transparent against the sky, the glass glittering jade in the morning light, sparkling thanks to the drying flecks of salt upon its surface.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He knows that his voice is still too weak to call out at this distance, though; so, instead, he merely increases the volume of his Scroll, then sips his coffee, trying to maintain his smile.

At the increase in volume, however, the creature disappears into the water again, just the barest hint of pain across its face. Clover pauses the music immediately; had he somehow hurt it?

The creature returns before long, though- this time, it lays an empty crab shell by its side, freshly cleaned of meat. Clover’s insides churn at the thought of this unearthly beauty devouring the crustacean, but he cannot help but feel impressed as the creature’s eerily-large hands use this emptied crab husk to scoop up some water for the creature to drink.

Hesitantly, Clover lowers the volume of the Scroll, then presses play once more. The creature’s face alights in surprise, although how he can hear it when Clover is still so far away, he does not know; however, that surprise quickly turns into contented wonder, and the creature sips his water and lays his head back down, watching Clover seated upon his little picnic blanket.

Clover does not get much reading done that morning. His imagination has been captured by something far more interesting, hidden away in this tiny fishing town by a broken pier.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meeting finally happens.

That first day, they do not exchange words, nor does this human approach him further. He knows he should flee- there is nothing positive that can come of this interaction- but he cannot help but watch this strange creature who has given up his pathetic attempts of fishing in favour of watching _him._ After all, everything about this human is baffling, so vibrant and colourful that it almost hurts to look at him without the barrier of the ocean tides. Even with this distance between them, Qrow can pick out brilliant jade eyes filled with a strange mix of curiosity and fear, the colour shining just as brightly as his treasures. His hair looks so strangely soft, Qrow finds; his own fingers keep going up to his dark, stiff locks which dry out every few minutes as he rests leisurely upon this rock. He wants to touch that soft hair, to see it swirl beneath his fingertips- to see how dun brown changes colour under the water.

What intrigues him more, however, is the _sound._

The human speaks softly to himself. It is pained, hoarse- Qrow can tell that he wishes to speak louder, but something is stopping him from being able to project. For this, Qrow is grateful, for his ears are already too easily assaulted by the sounds of humanity. Yet, there is something pitiful about these attempts to make sound, to use his voice properly.

He can tell that the creature is suffering. From what, he doesn’t know.

More intriguing, however, is this strange music echoing from something upon the human’s blanket. The sound is unlike anything he has ever heard before, a breathtaking, haunting sound that tinkles harmoniously, a million gentle strokes all at once in his mind, dissonant chords throwing him into a frenzy before it resolves itself without lifting a finger.

That night, Qrow goes to his sea glass, his bottles, his trinkets. He spends many hours working under the faint moonlight filtering into his cove, trying to figure out how to produce the same kind of sound. He is not successful; while tapping bottles of different sizes gives him different pitches, nothing can produce the same melodious _comfort_ of whatever had been emanating from the human’s belongings. It had been gentle, soft.

He wants to know more.

But how in the world can he ask? His ability to speak the human’s tongue has faded over the years, without anyone to practice it with; when his nieces had been born, the adults in the pod had spent far too long eavesdropping on speakers upon the pier, practicing on their own so that they could teach the little ones this other tongue which could save their life, should they ever get caught in a fisherman’s net. However, it has been many, many moons since he has tried.

He clears his throat, opening his mouth, pushing the air through. It always feels strange, closing off his gills so that the air flows solely through his nose, through his larynx; even stranger is the sound which emerges, though, for it feels like a stranger speaks with his mouth, filling this cove with the rough, guttural speech of man. He flushes, for it is clear that the man’s accent is far different from his. No matter how Qrow tries to mimic the man’s speech, however, his mouth cannot twist and curl around phonemes the same way he had heard the human speak. All he can do is remember the words themselves and pray they come across, his tongue of the sea and all.

He hopes these words are enough.

“I really shouldn’t do this,” he murmurs to the memorial, slipping back into his own tongue when speaking to the ones who have always loved him the most. “I know- humans aren’t ever good news. This guy’s probably going to be just like the rest.”

He says this, and yet, he cannot find the conviction within himself to believe it, for he had seen the way the human had left behind all of his belongings upon the pier the day before when approaching Qrow. He had seen the human do naught but lift a drink up to his lips in a welcoming toast, the gesture the same sort of camaraderie he has seen sailors perform upon their ships. It would not be done to something he intends to harm. Something about this man makes Qrow want to trust him.

Or maybe he’s just been alone for too long. Maybe his sense of danger is all but gone, washed away with the waves thanks to his solitude.

Empty eye sockets filled with shadow bear witness to this confusion. They do not give him the answers he needs. Those shall be up to him to find.

So, the next day, he decides to search for them. As the early morning light begins to strikes the seafoam, he swims out of his cove half a mile into the sea, then turns around, approaching the same nook in which he had placed himself the last few days from a more ambiguous point. By the time he arrives, the human is already there, already waiting, seated upon the rough sands with that same air of fear mingling with curiosity.

This day, however, Qrow does not linger out of sight. Instead, he pulls his torso onto the sand-covered stone shelf, leaving his tail floating gently below, hidden by the waves; once salt-streaked hair is pushed out of his eyes, he lifts his face up and nods towards the human.

 _Poor thing._ The man watching him is so pale at his arrival that Qrow wonders whether he shall faint. Still, he has gone too far to turn back now. Reaching out a hand, he beckons the man closer, then lays his head upon his arms, waiting for the creature to come to him.

It takes a few minutes for the human to process his request, but eventually, Qrow watches in mixed pity and amusement as the man carefully and clumsily totters to his feet, expression twisting at the exertion. He packs up his belongings, then begins relocating closer to Qrow. The journey is ungainly, ungraceful- he wonders as the man begins to stumble down the beach whether this human is indeed injured, as he had suspected. Something in this bowed gait does not seem natural, after all.

He does not have time to dwell upon this idea for too long, however. Soon, the human is merely ten feet away, drooping green eyes wide in disbelief and mild terror. He does not move closer, ensuring that he is well out of Qrow’s reach (although, if Qrow wants, he doubts he would have any difficulty crossing that distance- one kick from his tail would propel him far enough to grab hold of this trembling, frail human) before he takes a tentative seat, joints cracking and popping so loudly it stings Qrow’s ears.

Once the creature is settled down once again, he finally points to himself. Taking in a deep breath, he exhales from his gills, clearing his airways of water; the action causes the man to jump, unease covering his face clear as day. Qrow blinks languidly at him for a moment before it clicks, the realization making his chuckle lightly. _He’s never seen this, I guess,_ he thinks ruefully, taking his hands and pressing down on his gills, sealing them with mucous for now. It takes a few clumsy breaths for his lungs to fill properly with air, for the oxygen to begin circulating from within his chest rather than within his gill flaps, but after he is accustomed to it once more, he opens his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and murmurs in the same way he had practiced the night before, “My name… is Qrow.”

Something within the human seems to break at those words. Qrow is torn between wanting to laugh and cry, for the thought process running through this stranger’s mind is painted clear as day upon his face; it is so obvious that he had thought Qrow had been some strange monster, unable to speak, so hearing these words…

You’re _more a monster,_ he thinks wearily, resting his head upon his forearms. _Your people have taken away everything this ocean used to be._

Finally, the man seems to snap out of it. His voice trembles as he responds, his own voice gasping and pathetic, as if he can barely produce sound. “I’m… Clover,” the man replies, pointing to himself.

 _Clover._ His heart sinks at that. Sea clover is so much harder to find these days- humans have made sure of that, with their pollution and density problems and their negativity attracting enough Grimm that the wildlife that used to care for the budding plants have all been scared off.

The faint memory of the clumsy buds of white and purple flowers remind him of this man- fragile, scarce. About to break.

_I want to see more._

He does not realize just when he moves to lie properly upon the rock, but the paleness of Clover’s face only heightens as Qrow’s dark, crimson and black tail slips out of the water, powerful muscle protected by hard, nigh-impenetrable scales shimmering in the sunrise, almost looking like an extension of the water. He does not wish to frighten the man- he simply wants to see him eye-to-eye, to be able to look at the creature without forcing him to hunch over to look at Qrow.

Once he is comfortable, he sits upright, allowing his fins to rest in the water. Clover watches it all wordlessly, jaw falling agape in awe, in wonder, in shock. Something about that reaction strikes Qrow’s core.

Once upon a time, seeing merfolk was considered good luck. Humans used to wear smiles when they caught a glimpse of his powerful, lithe body under the waves.

Since when had it all changed?

But now, he is here, and he can study Clover properly. This human is handsome, he decides; something in his face reminds him of Tai’s, the same stern set of his jaw and ruefulness in his eyes as what had always shone in his brother’s face. Thick brows match those brown locks which look even softer in person, and his fingers twitch, then dig into the sand in an attempt to not reach out and try to touch them.

He asks if Clover is alone. Clover winces, blanches, says yes. When Clover asks him, words formed painstakingly through a ragged, hoarse throat, where Qrow calls home, he can only respond with a flick of his tail, a splash immediately swallowed by the endless tide beyond.

Clover nods. Then, he points upwards. “Home,” he breathes.

For a moment, Qrow is baffled- what in the world could that mean? Humans cannot-

And then, he hears it- the rumbling of an engine. The sound is far too piercing, and now, there are no waves to muffle the grinding, aching noise, so he covers his frail ears with his hand and ducks his head, praying for the sound to fade. It soon does, thankfully; and when he lifts his head, Clover has moved closer, naught but concern in his gaze, one hand reaching out as if to grab Qrow- as if to comfort him.

He turns his head, looking out into the distance. There is another one of those machines flying across the sky, its whirring more piercing than any boat could ever be. He has seen them before, but has never given them thought.

Qrow looks back at Clover, whose eyes have followed Qrow’s to trace the machine’s trail across the sky. Grief paints his features so starkly that for a moment that Qrow cannot breathe- it is palpable, raw. Full of longing and loneliness.

Qrow understands. This creature has been abandoned, too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, nearly the halfway point!
> 
> Let me know what you think :D

“You’ve been going down there a lot, I’ve heard,” Dr. Polendina murmurs, his voice rumbling and deep, his fingers carefully examining Clover’s neck for any swelling. “Anything exciting on the beach?”

“It’s just… to get used to the water again,” he replies softly, voice unable to go past this rough whisper.

The older man hums, stroking his goatee for a moment. “That’s all well and good, but be careful, alright? I’ve heard plenty of the locals say to stay away from that beach. Something about spirits, apparently. Can’t exactly see the legitimacy of it myself, but…”

Clover shakes his head, swallowing down the urge to try and articulate the strange, surreal circumstances in which he has found himself. Pietro Polendina is a newcomer to this town, just as he is, but Clover does not know this man well enough yet to be able to entrust the staggering secret of his discovery. Even if his voice still functioned properly, though, how in the world could he ever explain the fact that he has met what can only be described as a _merman_?

Even now, Qrow’s haunting features fill Clover’s mind. It is impossible to think of anything but this strange creature, after all; he has sat with Clover for two days in near silence now, merely listening to music and sharing in companionship. Clover has not caught fish these two days either, far too focused upon peeking up at this being who seems so otherworldly that he cannot even begin to comprehend its origins.

The creatures of Grimm, after all, are real, concrete. Deadly. Horrifying. But Qrow, as he’s introduced himself… he must be _magic,_ right? Are there more of them? Do they live nearby?

Why is Qrow alone, waiting for Clover every time?

 _…I’d like to talk to him more._ How to even broach proper conversation with the creature, he does not know- but Qrow’s eyes shimmer red just like the setting sun over the ocean waves, and Clover can never forget how at peace the creature had looked that day after their introduction. He wants to see that look again.

Dr. Polendina sighs, a rueful smile playing across his dark lips. He rolls his wheelchair over to the other side of the room, grabbing Clover’s charts and reading over them as he returns. “Your recovery is going well, Clover,” his deep, velvety voice intones with such strength that Clover’s breath is naught but a wisp of wind in comparison. “Your x-rays look good, the MRI scan shows no more trauma, and there doesn’t seem to be an issue with your throat. Just make sure you take care of yourself, eat properly, take your medicine, and rest. Okay?”

 _Will that fix my brain, too?_ He winces on instinct at the thought of waking up in his bed again, covered in sweat, aching and panting and longing to cry out with a voice that was no longer his to use thanks to his injuries. _How do I rest if I can’t sleep because of the memories?_

He doubts Dr. Polendina knows. He doubts anyone knows.

Sighing, Clover nods, whispering hoarsely, “When do you think my voice will recover?”

A flash of pity streaks across the doctor’s face. “You know, Clover, I’m hoping it’ll be soon,” he says softly. “It must be hard in a town like this. I can only imagine- everyone’s always getting on my case because of my wheelchair, since I can’t go down to the market very well and I’m just an old retiree from Atlas. I can’t imagine what they’ve said to you.”

Giving the doctor a weak smile, Clover shrugs. “It’s not that bad,” he replies. After all, this place could have treated him far worse. They could have let him to die that day. They didn’t, though- for that, Clover can never truly feel anger towards the townsfolk who have accepted him, trepidation and all.

However, the fact that they treat him as little but an invalid does not change. His bungalow’s price was lowered for him so that he and his weak knees would not have to climb the steep stairs which usually mark the multi-leveled, narrow homes of this town. The fishermen look at him with naught but pity in their eyes, and the workers in the market give him only the plainest things, knowing his origins and his lack of tolerance built up for local flavours and liquors. He longs to be able to explain himself- he could help fix engines, or perhaps he could learn a trade- but no one has any use for him in the field if they cannot hear his voice over the din of the job.

A few months earlier, and he would have never been looked at like this- like an outsider. He used to be capable. He used to be _more than this._

“Well,” the doctor says ruefully as he guides Clover to the door of his clinic, “I’m sure one day you’ll be up-and-at ‘em again, Clover. After all, this likely won’t be permanent damage, as long as you take care of yourself.” There is a relief in his eyes, but Clover can see what lies underneath it- a sense of loss, of camaraderie that is fleeting but precious.

Clover appreciates the kindness. However, he finds that in a childish, frustrated corner of his heart… he wishes no one would give it to him. He does not need such constant reminders of what he has gone through engrained into every interaction he has.

Perhaps that is why he finds himself drawn back to the seashore that day after his appointment. Qrow does not treat him like a wounded soldier- Qrow merely looks at him as an oddity, a strange creature to be examined and explored. For once, Clover feels strangely _equal_ to someone upon these rocky shores.

Upon first glance, there is no pale visage awaiting him in its corner nook, so Clover merely sighs and trudges down to the pier. It has been a few days since he has practiced his fishing, after all; he cannot allow his scant progress to go to waste, lest he be unable to help with the community once his wounds properly heal.

The moment his feet dangle over the edge and touch the water, however, Clover’s ankle is met with long, spindly fingers which instill such a sense of dread in him that he screams automatically. The movement is immediately met with unfathomable pain, his throat burning and splitting from the exertion. He wrenches his foot up onto the wooden planks and curls up, hanging his forehead between his knees, desperately biting back sobs that will only make the pain worse.

A familiar, accented voice eases his immediate fears, leaving behind only the pain. “Clover, are you… okay?”

Mutely, he nods, waiting for the pain to die down. When he manages to open his eyes, he sees Qrow seated upon a craggy rock jutting out of the water, his iridescent scales sparkling crimson and grey in the afternoon sunlight; the sight is absolutely breathtaking, momentarily distracting him from his pain.

It is when he looks into Qrow’s eyes, however, that he realizes what has happened. Qrow has spoken to him. Qrow has found him again, has waited for him. After days of silent companionship, Qrow has finally acknowledged Clover- and if the worry in his furrowed brow is anything to go by, he cares for this battered, broken human he has found upon the shores of his home, too.

The very thought melts his heart.

Smiling, Clover shifts upon the dock until his feet once again hang over the ledge. He leaves his fishing gear packed up; instead, he merely points at his ankle, giving Qrow a quizzical look.

In response, Qrow flicks water in his face using his tail, the water so sudden and shocking that Clover cannot respond. Then, he wipes his face, closes his eyes, and _laughs._

Gods, how long has it been since he has done that?

And so, the duo begins their wordless exploration. He rolls up his pant cuffs and allows Qrow to look at his legs, his ankles, his toes- he holds his hands out, feeling unnaturally cold, smooth fingers, far too long to be human, explore the spaces between each in fascination. He cannot help but smile wryly as inquisitive red eyes look sternly at the distinct lack of webbing, that gruff, coarse voice growling out, “But… how do you swim without fins?” in such earnestness that it almost seems childlike.

The question, however, stings slightly. His smile wavers- he prays for Qrow not to notice, focusing attention on cupping his fingers together, demonstrating the motions of how to swim. He does not enter the water, though- that is far too great of a task for him.

One day, he thinks. Not today.

Qrow does not mind, however, for his fingers, his legs, his toes- these digits which do not resemble his own clearly fascinate him beyond measure. Clover flushes from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes when he witnesses, when he _feels,_ a frighteningly-long tongue slip past sharp teeth to explore those spaces, the heat from the muscle almost painful in contrast to Qrow’s cold fingers.

When he shudders as that tongue covers his wrist for a moment, pressing against the inner tendon, pressing against his _heartbeat,_ Qrow finally pulls away, those crimson eyes growing pale for a moment as that third, eerie inner eyelid sweeps over those almond-shaped eyes. Silently, Qrow cocks his head, asking for permission to continue this exploration, this examination.

The movement, however, causes Clover’s eyes to land upon something else- the flaps which he can only identify as _gills,_ pressed flat against Qrow’s neck. Tentatively, he reaches out, holding his fingers just above Qrow’s face, asking to go further.

Qrow’s eyes narrow. Clover pulls back, tapping his own nose- then, he reaches out again. His throat burns, both from his earlier abuse and from the words he longs to say, but all he can do is wait for Qrow’s understanding, for this creature’s response.

Finally, Qrow releases him. Dives back into the water. Emerges again a moment later with his gills moving, no longer stuck flat to the sides of his thick, muscled neck. He climbs halfway back onto the rock- just within Clover’s reach.

Trembling, Clover’s fingers extend, brushing tender fingertips against a sharp, stubble-covered jaw, moving down until they reach the three jagged, breathing gills moving gently with every rise and fall of Qrow’s chest. They stroke the outer edge, the sight of his touch interacting with such surreal flesh almost dizzying.

Qrow shudders, but does not pull away. Half-lidded, the creature remains patient, his tail lazily dancing in the waters below until Clover pulls slightly-damp fingers away from tender, sensitive flesh. When Clover retreats, he does so completely, withdrawing hands and feet off of the pier; this action causes concern and fear to flit across Qrow’s face, and before Clover can stop him, the merman is gone.

_…he thinks I rejected him._

For some reason, that idea- as self-indulgent and pitiful as it may be- strikes a chord in Clover. That is why the next morning, when Qrow lifts his head out of the water in his usual nook, Clover is already seated upon Qrow’s usual stone, feet dangling in the water. He holds out his hands. He smiles.

And, for the first time since they have met, Qrow smiles back. His teeth are jagged and deadly, almost pearl-like in the early morning sunlight, and sharp enough to rend through anything- but Clover finds that smile oddly beautiful. Soothing.

With Qrow here, he does not feel as frightened of the water.

They are different from one another, Clover thinks, but there is nothing wrong with either of them. As Qrow’s curved, claw-like digits continue to pull and gently examine his empty, callused hands, Clover cannot help but feel grateful for this fact.

It feels nice, to be viewed as _whole._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally halfway throughhhhhh

The current human world is beyond his comprehension, he realizes. Granted, Qrow has never dared to venture so close to a human before, but even as Clover softly explains different things to him, Qrow cannot help but appreciate the sheer inanity of it all. He has spent what feels like hundreds of moons swimming the same waters, fighting against the same Grimm, protecting his rocky shores and quiet shoals with as much ferocity as he can ever muster despite his pod falling apart. In comparison to this static lifestyle, humanity has been taking much greater strides.

The Scroll is the most fascinating thing, in his opinion. He adores seeing Clover use the small rectangular piece of glass; he likes to pull himself onto the pier, laying on his stomach in rapt fascination as Clover opens up what he calls ‘menus’ and finds information written in scripts which Qrow has never seen. It is magical, the way this device can show _people_ and _animals_ and _life_ depicted in perfect clarity upon that tiny surface. Clover allows him to touch it, although Qrow doesn’t particularly like doing it; after all, he must dry his hands each time, leaving him feeling cracked and parched and unwell. It is much easier to let Clover press whatever Qrow points to.

Qrow likes the music the most, however.

Most of what Clover whispers out with his scarred, broken voice is nonsense to Qrow- he has no idea what in the world this strange man means when he discusses ‘instruments’ and ‘genres’ and whatever-the-heck he would like to call all of this strange, magical sound. All that matters is that Clover can adjust the volume of the sound, and he is always open to letting Qrow play with this device and listen to different things.

There are so many things to learn about in this new world, and thankfully, his fascination is always indulged so earnestly by Clover.

Thus, their routine is cemented.

Each day, Qrow gathers up his favourite treasures from his box. Clover had gifted him a little drawstring bag, one made of a strange, thin material which does not absorb the water, much to Qrow’s amazement; he puts in a few pieces of glass each day and swims out to the shore before the sunrise, his heart pounding in his chest in anticipation. Then, they meet upon the shore, and Clover brings him his Scroll and a new song, image, treasure to share with Qrow. Each day, he greets Qrow by walking a little further into the water, too; he can go into the water up to his knees now, which delights Qrow to no end.

Once they greet one another, Qrow shows him the sea glass and trinkets he has collected, and Clover examines each piece with a kind of care and love that Qrow almost feels like he does not deserve. Compared to the magic of the human world, sea glass is likely not the most riveting thing. Yet, Clover holds each piece up to the morning light, grinning in peaceful delight as the refracted rays illuminated the world for just a few moments. Qrow loves those few seconds where Clover examines each piece; the colourful light dancing across his rosy, dry skin is oddly beautiful.

After they share in Qrow’s findings, Clover sets up his station for the day. He still does try to fish, although he is largely unsuccessful with Qrow’s body disrupting the water. To make up for that, before Clover leaves each evening, Qrow catches a few for the man to take home. Why he does not simply eat them on the shore, Qrow does not really understand, but he is happy to catch whatever the man needs if it means Clover will stay with him. _It’s not as if he would be good at catching them with his hands,_ he thinks each time he takes Clover’s strange, unwebbed fingers in his hands. The gaps between each digit are fascinating and frightening. _He’s probably terrible at swimming with hands like these._

Yet, Qrow likes Clover’s hands. Qrow quite likes the taste and feel of them. The human likes to run his fingers through Qrow’s hair, and the separation between each digit allows those strands to weave through and intertwine with his fingers in a way that is so pleasing that Qrow can never get enough of it. There is value in those hands.

Eventually, Clover gives up on his fishing each day. It is this part of the day which Qrow likes the most; that is when Clover begins to speak. His rasping voice is gentle upon Qrow’s ears, so he quite enjoys laying his head upon his arms- or, more recently, upon Clover’s lap as the man hangs his legs in deeper waters, those strange unwebbed fingers tracing Qrow’s gills in a manner that is almost _loving-_ as Clover tells him of his life, of a world which Qrow has never known.

Humans live so _much_ in their lives. It’s almost frightening.

Through these talks, Qrow finally comes to understand why he has felt such kinship with this human from the start. The giant human-made machines which whir across the sky, their engines grating and far too loud, the sound enough to pierce even the upper waves, are called ‘airships’, apparently. Clover explains this all softly, his eyes glassing over in bittersweet, longing-filled nostalgia; Qrow watches this human’s expression soften as he lifts his chin up, eyes locked onto the horizon, shining with far more wisdom in his short human life than Qrow feels like he has ever known.

“I used to be a pilot,” he breathes one day, sweat beading upon his brow as the sun reaches its zenith. “I used to fly those airships. Special Forces, y’know?”

Qrow does not. He nods anyways, for it is easy enough to understand the base concept- that Clover used to be able to control _magic,_ that he used to be able to _fly._

_And now, he’s stuck here with me._

He never quite learns the reason for Clover’s new life upon the ground, nor does he understand what it means to fly in the sky… but every time an engine rumbles overhead, he goes from hiding away from the grating sound underwater to staying upon the surface. Clover realizes quickly in their meetings that loud sounds hurt him, after all; his hands block out the sound of machinery ringing overhead better than the water ever could.

Staying upon the surface also gives Qrow the perfect window to looking at Clover’s face during these brief periods. He is a bird with broken wings, unable to take flight. Qrow has always longed for the sky, yes- it is clear and open and free, the way that the ocean can never be- but Clover simply longs for what he clearly knows as _home._

He wants to protect this human, he thinks. Gulls do not taste delicious. Perhaps they are better as creatures to be cared for.

At least, Clover’s quiet, wishful smile makes him want to believe it is so.

…and then, it all changes.

The Grimm attack is creeping, slow; he is far too distracted by the warmth of Clover’s presence, by the music filtering through the air, soft enough to not damage his sensitive ears. He is too distracted by the peaceful tranquility of this shoreline, seemingly far too innocent to hide any demons of shadow.

He is wrong. It lashes out, red, glowing eyes set within the deep black sockets of their white bone masks glowing horribly in the water, white bone washing out in the sun; claws and teeth attempt to tear and bite, jaws locking onto the space where Clover’s leg had been moments before. It is only due to luck that he withdraws just a breath earlier to sit cross-legged, but with the appearance of this demon, he scrambles to his feet, those green eyes looking frantically between Qrow and the dangerous, swirling depths.

Qrow hesitates in extending his claws. He has kept them hidden until now, hoping to not frighten Clover away, for he knows humans do not have this ability to defend themselves naturally; he bares his teeth instead, snarling and growling under the waves at the Grimm who has strayed into his territory so unabashedly that it makes him sick.

It does not back away. So, he extends his claws, feeling them slide through mucous-lined membranes until they are bared and glistening, ready to rend through acrid, shadowy flesh.

He does not get a chance. The Grimm leaps onto the pier, its darkness a horrifying contrast against the bright summer day which they had been enjoying peacefully. And before Qrow can do anything to leap to Clover’s aid, his heart in his throat because _this is just like back then- gods, if they hurt Clover- they’re going to hurt him just like they hurt Ruby and Yang, goddammit-_

And suddenly, a long, threatening blade appears in Clover’s hands. It is slightly curved, shining clean and sharp enough to slice through the thinnest hair; he wields it deftly, pulling it out of his backpack and slashing out at this Grimm without hesitation. Qrow feels his entire body go limp as he watches Clover cut through that bone mask in two swift slices, felling the monster despite his knobbly knees and wobbling figure. He does not need Qrow.

Qrow dives into the water for a moment, then surfaces again, hoisting himself onto his usual platform. There are no other Grimm nearby- he can sense no void Auras, nor can he see any more red eyes. That Grimm had been the anomaly. _I’ll patrol tonight and make sure nothing else thinks it can get near this cove,_ he swears to himself as he reaches out to Clover. _Nothing else will attack him-_

He reaches out to touch Clover’s bare ankle, to assure him that he is alright. When his fingers brush against Clover’s skin, the human does not smile like he always does. Instead, he spins to look at Qrow, almost falling over with the action; rather than collapsing, however, he merely raises his blade, looking down his nose at Qrow with such ferocity and viciousness that any warmth in Qrow’s body is sapped away, sucked into the water like the ashes of the Grimm.

That blade could tear him to pieces.

_I’m a monster to him, too._

He did nothing wrong.

He does not want to be treated like a monster.

_That’s Clover’s weapon._

He swims away. Clover is just like all other humans, he realizes as he loops around to his cove. It is not safe to be near him. It was a fool’s errand to think that even an injured human could lose its predatory instincts- a fool’s errand indeed, to think that Qrow might no longer be as alone.

…he has nothing left to look forward to other than the day he returns to his bed of seagrass and kelp. _Might as well start fattening up for the sleep,_ he thinks bitterly, fear fueling his frustrated tears which spill forth from his eyes, disappearing as drops in an ocean made of his people’s grief. Clover will have to catch fish on his own now. He will not return to see this human- not while he has a weapon that could destroy him so easily at the ready, just like the humans who had stolen his family away from him.


	8. Chapter 8

He does not recognize just how listless he has become until the doctor points it out, concern creasing his brow as he looks upon Clover’s hunched-over form. To that observation, Clover can only murmur weakly, “…I hurt someone.”

Instantly, Dr. Polendina’s interest is piqued, the doctor’s lips curving into a curious smile. He strokes his white beard, murmuring, “Oh, really? Who is it, Clover?”

He shakes his head, massaging his temple wearily. He did not get much sleep the night before; his mind had been too preoccupied all night with images of gnashing teeth and grinning, leering fangs, of bone masks and claws adorning long, familiar fingers which he had once thought were safe. There is no way to even begin to explain his fatigue or the person behind this turmoil.

The doctor is far too amused to let go of the conversation that quickly. Leaning closer, he murmurs, “Is it a young woman? I didn’t know there was someone in town who caught your eye, but you are still fairly young, Clover.”

Clover sighs, shaking his head again and offering his arm up forlornly when the doctor motions for it. As the man wraps the inflatable blood pressure gauge around his bicep, Clover can only focus upon the image outside of the window of the sea in the distance, the calm waters dangerously dark, mirroring a grim, stormy sky roiling above just waiting to unleash its fury upon the seaside town. “I don’t know what I did wrong,” he admits, voice soft and hesitant. His throat is healing, and he does not have as much difficulty communicating as before, but the way his voice hitches is still completely unlike his former booming persona.

It is not entirely attributable to his injury, however.

Dr. Polendina regards him carefully for a moment before sighing, removing his flat cap in favour of brushing back white, curly locks from his forehead. “You know, Clover,” he muses aloud, replacing the cap, “for someone trained in radio communication, you can be real obtuse about sharing information clearly, you know that?” When the former pilot stares blankly at him, the man rolls over to the other counter, his wheelchair squeaking in harmony with his chuckles. “Just tell them that you’re sorry. Whatever you did, it wasn’t intentional, right?”

Clover nods slowly. The doctor isn’t wrong. _I guess… I need to figure out what’s wrong, first and foremost._

So, the next morning, Clover makes his way down to the waters. “Be careful down there, lad,” the fisherman calls as Clover walks away after buying more bait. “You shouldn’t go down there alone- at least take someone with you! What if you get spirited away?”

He holds up his hand and waves to the man as he continues down the path, but he does not heed that advice. If fate had wanted to take his life in the seas, wouldn’t it have done so during the accident? Wouldn’t it have drowned him already, back when it had him in its grasp, struggling and helpless in the water after the event which still haunts his dreams? This idea that Clover is venturing in dangerous territory in going to that quiet abandoned pier baffles him to no end; do they believe that it is Qrow, or his people, who would take Clover away? If Qrow is naught but a monster to be feared, he would have already stolen Clover away from that tiny town; now, it seems silly to think that the creature would come back to take Clover away. Clover is growing stronger by the day, little by little. Dragging him down into the depths would have been far easier when Clover was too weak to fight back.

Qrow has never meant any harm to Clover, though. That, he believes steadfastly. The question remains, though- does he believe that Clover meant harm to him?

He hopes not. He has hoped for many things in his life, however, and everything has somehow led him here, so… there is little point in merely hoping.

With his first steps upon damp, clinging sands, he is apprehensive beyond compare, for he has not ventured down here since the Grimm attack- since Qrow’s flight a few days earlier. Part of that trepidation stems from the fact that he hadn’t even considered the possibility that there would be Grimm around this area, for he has yet to see any of them on land. To know that they stalk the depths of the oceans surrounding this inlet makes him sick to the core. He knows well enough how to fight a few of them off- it is basic air crew survival training, after all- but those skills apply to land-based creatures only. Never has he learned how to fight off a monster dwelling in the ocean.

 _Gods,_ if they wanted to, they could drag him downwards-

And he had just gotten more comfortable with the water, too.

There is little point in worrying about this now, however. All he wants is to make sure that Qrow is okay, for he has never asked where the merman sleeps, but the thought of him being vulnerable to those monsters of the deep horrifies Clover in a way that is so visceral, so nauseating, that he cannot breathe each time it crosses his mind.

The other reason behind his fear, however, is far more nebulous, far more difficult to name. He struggles to even admit it to himself, but… the thought of Qrow abandoning Clover-

He refuses to even acknowledge that fear. It is too much.

He arrives at the shore. There is debris left upon the beach from the previous day’s storm: driftwood, matted piles of kelp, strange swirling patterns in the sands, small fish and crabs and shellfish which have been tossed about and abandoned by high tides smashing against the wind-swept shoreline. It looks far more ominous than what Clover is used to after weeks of wandering down here to enjoy warm, comfortable days of blossoming summertime.

…they have only been warm and comfortable thanks to Qrow, haven’t they?

But Qrow does not come to the pier that day, and when Clover checks the other little nook in which the two have lazed about their days, there is no sign of the merman’s presence there. He groans and sighs, watching the sun peek over the mountains in the east, illuminating waters filled with naught but traces of the smile he wishes was truly there. All Clover can do is keep his knife upon his hip in case the Grimm return and continue to fish, building up the skill which he knows he should have already gained after weeks of coming to this quiet shore on his own. _The townsfolk will begin to talk if I don’t show some improvement,_ he thinks wearily. _I need to prove I can earn my keep._

His pension can only support him so far, after all. He needs to figure out how to earn enough money without having to rely upon the handouts of the villagers, for even their kindness shall come to a halt one day, and he is not ready to stand upon his own two feet.

Qrow does not come back the next day, either. He sets himself up to fish once again, but he also does something else; he takes his Scroll and begins to play music, the sounds softly dancing overtop of the waves.

“I think you’ll like this song, Qrow,” he calls out gently to the open seas. There is no response.

And so, this becomes his new normal: going down to the pier, talking gently to endless waves as his Scroll plays calming music. Qrow has always liked woodwinds, so he plays gentle flute and piano melodies to fill the space the merman has left.

The ocean carries sound, after all. Perhaps Qrow can hear Clover waiting for him, wherever he is. Clover likes to think it so.

All he can do is wait for Qrow to come back, for Dr. Polendina’s initial words are correct and Clover simply needs to speak to Qrow; he needs to explain himself, to ask for forgiveness, to understand where he went wrong and how to make it right. Qrow is the first person in this town who has truly treated him like someone who _belongs_ there, and he refuses to give that up.

Waiting is painful, though. There is a part of him that, as the weeks progress with no sign of Qrow upon those shores, begins to feel almost grateful for his injuries, for as physiotherapy begins to take over his routine, he has less time to worry about whether or not he has lost the one person he has felt kinship with in this new life of his.

Qrow does not come back for the rest of the summer. Clover is lonely- lonelier now, more than before he had met Qrow, he finds. He wishes it wasn’t so, but there is nothing that can erase the longing he feels for long, cold fingers which have somehow become the most soothing things to hold against the wounds slowly healing upon his heart.


	9. Chapter 9

Qrow does not mean to return to _him._

The light filters through the waters, streaming through rippling waves with a gentleness that signals the end of a long, harsh winter and a stormy, turbulent spring. The seasons are always as such in this little cove, but that is what makes his return to the surface so wonderful each year, for the scent of passing storms lingers without the heartache the crashing waves and rushing waters causes him. Once his lungs have filled with fresh, calm air, he sets off to his usual destination. After all, from his cocoon of kelp and coral and safety, there is little to do by way of tradition aside from visiting his pod; his goal is his little cove, first and foremost, as it always is.

And yet, the moment he dumps his newfound treasures into his box and he presses a kiss onto each of his loved ones, he does not stay there as he normally would. His body swims out of the cove before he is even aware of where he is going. When he sees a silhouette of a man seated upon the pier nearly twelve lunar cycles after he had fled, Qrow finds himself swimming towards it. His tail drives him onwards before he can stop himself, his eyes locked fervently on the figure which has haunted his long, lonely dreams all of these months. He does not stop to think, to rest, to realize just how exhausted he is after growing emaciated and weary after such a long rest.

Once he is within thirty feet of the man, however, he finally comes to grips with his senses. What in the world is he doing? How in the world could he so willingly throw himself back into the company of someone who has clearly always been just like all the other humans, ready to kill and destroy without remorse? He gasps, finding the sense to dive a few metres down to avoid being seen, ducking behind a rock down the shoreline, peering at the figure upon the pier, his chest aching terribly after such heavy exertion following months of hibernation.

Clover looks different, he realizes. There is a still a bowed curve to his legs, a thinness to his limbs which frightens Clover so; however, his shoulders, arms, chest all look bigger, stronger. His back is straight rather than slouched, and as the merman watches the human cast another line into the water, he realizes that Clover is far better at this, too. He has improved at fishing beyond measure, and although it is early in the day, the man still boasts quite a catch upon the pier, if Qrow’s eyes are to be trusted.

It feels almost like a different man. However, those brilliant green eyes that glitter like the most precious morsels of sea glass can never be mistaken. It is Clover, undoubtedly.

He does not know how that makes him feel. He almost wishes it is someone else; that way, he could swim away, pretending like those few comfortable, idle weeks where his head could lay in Clover’s lap had been naught but a hallucination.

The whirring of an airship’s engine overhead overtakes him, driving into his skull without remorse. He groans, slipping into the water immediately; the rock seems to reverberate with the sound, capturing it and amplifying it even under the water. He presses his hands to his ears and swims around the rock, curling up, his head growing foggy as his fatigue catches up to him.

Finally, the water stills, and he allows his head to peek out of the water. He can no longer hear the engine, so he lets his head rest back onto the rock, a sigh of relief slipping past his lips.

And then, he realizes what he has done.

“Qrow?” Clover breathes, looking at him with wide, amazed eyes.

_No._

He grabs hold of the rock, readying to push himself off of it, to rush back into the waters-

“Wait!”

For a moment, Qrow freezes, his ears ringing as he recognizes Clover’s voice. The timbre and tone of it has changed over the past year, however; where it had once been halting and hesitant, melodious to Qrow’s ears in its gentleness, this one word which Clover calls out is now abrasive and jarring, the same intensity as the men upon the fishing boats.

Then, Clover does something strange. He gasps, touching his throat, his expression softening in rueful regret. He opens his mouth, and Qrow winces pre-emptively, ready for another assault upon his senses, but the voice which emerges those pink lips is soft, breathy- soothing to listen to. “Wait, Qrow,” Clover breathes. His tone is still rich and low, but the intensity is completely different to the strength he had displayed just moments earlier. “I’m sorry. I’ll whisper, so stay, okay?”

Tentatively, Qrow pulls himself onto the rock. His heart aches with conflicted desires as Clover immediately swings his legs over the side of the pier, looking at him like he would a scared animal. He does not reach out; instead, Clover merely waits once he is settled, a kind, patient smile upon his face.

When he realizes that Qrow shall not speak, however, Clover begins. “I… I brought you something.” He reaches into his pack, retrieving a small bag the size of his palm. Qrow stays at a distance, frowning as he waits for whatever could be inside this pouch. His heart drops to the end of his tail, however, his extremities pulsing as blood rushes through him in his fatigue and wonderment, as Clover opens up the pouch and holds up a singular item from within before placing it back inside, handing the bag over to Qrow. “Please. Keep it.”

His fingers struggle to find purchase upon the corded binding and the slippery, smooth pieces, but soon, Qrow is able to hold up a beautiful orange piece of sea glass which has been polished to a breathtaking shine. His heart leaps into his throat, his body trembling- whether it is from the cold or from the fatigue, or simply from the gesture (for this bag weighs heavily in his hand, and already he cannot even imagine just how much more his treasure chest shall be filled this day.

Clover has collected all of this for Qrow. Qrow is no fool; he knows that there is absolutely no value stored in these pieces for Clover. He has all the wealth of the human world at his fingertips.

And here he is, having collected a bag full of some of the most pristine sea glass Qrow has ever seen.

“I’m sorry if I did anything to hurt you, Qrow,” Clover murmurs slowly, enunciating with extra clarity to aid Qrow’s struggling comprehension. “I don’t understand what I did, though. Could you explain it to me?”

He feels rage rush through his veins, causing his nostrils and gills to flare out bitterly for a moment before he splashes himself with his tail, cooling himself down. There is no point being upset. So, he points one long webbed hand towards the knife which hangs, visibly so, upon Clover’s belt. “Dangerous,” he croaks, his voice unused to speech after these long, wearying months.

Clover glances down, eyes widening in shock. Then, he pulls out the blade; Qrow instinctively unsheathes his claws and bares his fangs, ready to strike against this human who has the audacity to bare a blade at _him-_

But instead of attacking, Clover holds the flat of the blade towards Qrow. “Did… does this make you uncomfortable?”

He nods.

Clover seems to mull over that for a long, long time. What he is pondering, Qrow does not know; however, he finally seems to come to a conclusion as he murmurs, “Have humans hurt you with these?”

“…yes.”

Those green, sparkling eyes mist over. “I’m sorry. I won’t ever hurt you.”

There is no reason for Qrow to believe him, and yet, something compels him to keep listening.

Clover continues, “This knife is special to me. We were attacked by Grimm during a flight, and our engines were destroyed. We had to parachute out- jump out of the airship,” he explains when Qrow stares blankly at him, “with these large sheets on our backs to slow the fall. I had been trained to jump a million times, but when it happened…” He shudders, face growing strangely pale, anxious. “For some reason, something went wrong- I got caught underneath someone else somehow, and I had to cut myself free.” He lifts up the blade slowly to draw attention back to it. “This is what got me out. I would have drowned.”

Without a word, Qrow reaches out, beckoning for Clover to move closer. The human obeys, allowing Qrow to trace his fingers against the smooth skin of Clover’s neck. _He would have died._ His eyes land upon the blade. _If it wasn’t for this._

Fearfully, Qrow reaches out, tracing an unsheathed claw over the lines and curves of the blade. The contact rings in his ears, deafening him slightly; and yet, he cannot bring himself to hate this weapon which has the ability to hurt so many. Nothing is inherently evil aside from the Grimm, and this blade is not responsible for anything.

 _It’s brought you here,_ he thinks, lifting his gaze to look at Clover. The sight which greets him causes his heart to seize painfully, his breath catching in his throat, gills stiffening for a moment in shock.

Clover’s smile, with those strangely-blunt teeth and lips that are far too dry, is beautiful, tender, as he looks back at Qrow. Silently, Qrow pulls the blade out of Clover’s hands and puts it aside, then grabs those hands, sheathing his claws in favour of holding those rough, dry digits in his own palms. In turn, Clover pulls away, then cups Qrow’s face gently, no longer looking away as Qrow blinks away the salt water which splashes into his eyes using his third eyelid. He does not look away.

Qrow smiles back. The knife is frightening. He is glad it brought Clover to him, though. He is glad.


	10. Chapter 10

It is ironic that after honing his skills in the water, even going so far as to learn to swim, to conquer the formerly unquenchable fear that the ocean had evoked in him after the crash, that he has ended up in a career which does not even require him to be out on the ocean at all. However, with one of the former schoolteachers of the tiny local primary school retiring, Clover’s training and education in Atlas gives him the perfect leg up into sliding into this new, oddly-satisfying role.

It helps that there’s literally no one else around to which they can ask, so they resort to turning to Clover, who is simultaneously over- and under-qualified for the role. Clover likes to gloss over that fact when Dr. Polendina teases him about it, though.

Qrow does not understand schooling, nor does he truly comprehend why Clover can’t be at the beach every day. It is strangely adorable, Clover thinks, watching Qrow stare at him with those wide, glittering crimson eyes, long upper lashes glistening with the ocean’s spray; he pouts when Clover insists that he has to leave once the sun has risen, his slightly bared teeth forming an expression which probably would have been mildly terrifying a year earlier, but now is dearer to Clover than anything.

His students remark how happy he is once the summertime returns that year. “I’ve reconciled with… someone special to me,” he tries explaining. “Do you know what that means?”

And when they say no, they do not, he explains the meaning behind those words gently, his heart welling up in pride and relief for the fact that he had not given up on Qrow. He had waited nearly a year, doubting himself and hating himself for committing a sin which he had not understood; and now, finally, the hatchet is buried in the sand, and they are companions once more.

Still, Qrow allows him to go. Clover’s heart breaks every time he crests the hill at the edge of the beach leading back to the main road, for Qrow’s silhouette in the water is painfully lonely.

That stark image of shimmering crimson and black scales reflecting early morning rays becomes even more haunting after one particular conversation, however. It is a sunny day- a weekend, providing Clover with an opportunity to spend the entire day at the beach. He does so with relish, ignoring the pier in favour of setting up a blanket just at the edge of Qrow’s favourite little nook, hidden from the intense sunlight by a large, rocky outcropping. His Scroll is placed in a sealed plastic bag to protect it from the water, and then, he pulls off his shirt and slides into the water. The original shock of brisk, cool waves always causes gooseflesh to race across his body- it probably always will- but he acclimatizes soon enough, sitting in wait, drinking coffee from a thermos as he sits upon a little rock shelf in wait.

Soon enough, Qrow appears, his handsome, lean visage brightening thousand-fold when he realizes that Clover is clearly ready to stay the entire day. He does not hesitate to swim around Clover, splashing him playfully before bringing those long webbed fingers up to smooth his hair out of his face.

Clover does not know when this intimacy had begun. He does not mind it, though.

As they whisper to one another, sharing the happenings they have seen the previous week- Qrow, from watching the fishing boats and fighting off Grimm while Clover is teaching, and Clover, in his time at work or visiting the doctor- Qrow finally seems to understand what Clover means by being a ‘teacher’.

“…you guide little ones?” Qrow murmurs, his head lifting from Clover’s shoulder. His guttural, inhuman voice breaks, vulnerable and raw.

Clover stiffens, then nods, his heart sinking as his mind and heart races. _I’ve wondered, since he’s all alone, but…_

“Mine are gone,” Qrow whispers.

“How?”

“The Grimm.”

“…no one else is left?”

He shakes his head. “Just me.” He casts a glance backwards to the blanket set up for when the water grows to be too much for Clover- at the knife which still lies within arm’s reach. “Humans killed my sisters and brother.”

And from that moment on, Clover’s entire world seems to shift. Before, Qrow had merely been a bright spot in his busy, but mundane days. But Clover also has his students, and the doctor, and now that he can walk and talk and _help,_ the townsfolk, too.

Qrow has just Clover.

So, when Qrow asks him more about the children who he teaches and wears the most contented smile at the stories which Clover relays, Clover promises silently to stay with this creature of the seas. Of everyone and everything Qrow could have chosen, this creature has picked _him._

He will not betray that trust.

This trust is only hardened, heightened, when Clover comes down to the shore one cold, brisk morning. Although it is the peak of summertime, the wind still whips around, the last few remnants of a stormy, thunderous night. Clover’s feet slip and slide upon muddy embankments, but he no longer walks with a wobble, no longer struggles to move forward. He is almost fully healed, and with that force, he longs to ensure that Qrow is alright.

Thankfully, the merman appears at the edge of the pier before Clover even needs to search for him. The relief which blossoms across his chest is quickly marred, however, as Qrow’s eyes suddenly widen, his hand springing up to grab onto Clover’s hand with such force that the man almost loses his balance and topples into the water right then and there.

Clover begins to speak, then swallows his words, lowering his voice. “Qrow, what’s the matter-?”

“Who hurt you?” Qrow snarls, spitting acid. “Who put that _thing on you?”_

Baffled, Clover looks down at his body. There is no wound there, nor is he sporting anything unusual-

Strangely enough, Qrow holds his hand with a tenderness, an anxiousness, which he has never seen in the merman. “It’s just a ring, Qrow. I don’t have- it doesn’t hurt at all.”

Qrow’s gills flare out in bitter rage. “Don’t go back.”

“What?” Clover retracts slightly, anxiety causing bile to rise up into his throat. “What are you-“

“ _I can’t keep you safe_ _if you go_.”

 _If I go back on land,_ the words unspoken cry out. Where the ocean’s tides kiss the sands, Qrow can defend Clover from anything; upon the earth, Qrow’s claws are absolutely useless in protecting Clover.

_I’m all he has._

In that one moment, however, Clover has to take pause, has to breathe. He has never seen Qrow acting in such a manner, his entire body tensed, gills flared, claws bared, ready to strike; he has never seen this predation, this _venom,_ which appears in his eyes at the mere thought that Clover has gotten hurt, that someone has brought harm to the weary, broken man far away from where Qrow’s protection can reach.

He has always adored the way the sun glitters off of Qrow’s hair, his iridescent crimson scales- the way the colour morphs and shifts, reflecting the rays the same way the setting sun sparkles off of gentle ocean waves. However, he has never met anything like _this_ creature who bubbles under the surface, the ocean’s true wrath just a storm away.

For the first time since they had first met, he truly fears Qrow.

Carefully, Clover sits upon the edge of the pier. He removes his boots and socks, his pants and shirt; clad only in his underwear, he slips into the water. It is too deep to stand in here, but he allows himself to sink in anyways, clutching onto the rock upon which Qrow sits to keep his shoulders above water level. Qrow watches in shock for a moment before slipping back into the water with grace, his entry barely causing a splash in the water; then, he resurfaces, his towering, imposing form, a good foot taller than Clover, looming over him.

Clover holds out his hand and slips the ring off, holding it for the merman to examine. “One of my students, a little one, made this for me,” he explains. Slipping the ring back on, he adds, “They’re called ‘rings’. They can mean many things, but usually, they represent bonds.” He snorts at the memory of the eight-year-old who had given him this clumsily-made wire-and-bead ring. “She’s learning to make these, so she gave me one.” He winks playfully. “Don’t tell her other teachers though- apparently I’m her favourite.”

Finally, understanding dawns upon Qrow’s face, and the merman’s entire body seems to relax. “You’re not hurt?” he whispers.

“No.”

Without a word, Qrow gathers Clover up in his arms. Clover does not pull away, expecting this to be a normal embrace; however, the merman quickly pushes away from the shore, dragging away any source of stability Clover can hope to have. In absence of anything to cling to, Clover grabs onto strong shoulders, taking care not to disturb the fin-like ridges upon Qrow’s shoulder blades, and angles his face towards the sky.

Thankfully, Qrow stays at the surface, pulling Clover to lay upon his body as they float upon the surface. Clover opens his mouth to protest, to beg Qrow to take him back; however, he does not get the chance, for it is clear that anything he says will fall upon deaf ears as Qrow grabs onto his hand and examines the ring in the sunlight. “It doesn’t hurt,” he whispers in awe.

Clover shivers as Qrow’s tongue emerges to trace over the beadwork. He does not hate this sensation, but he knows once Qrow is fixated upon something he shall not let it go; so, he leans his head upon Qrow’s chest and clings, putting his faith in this creature to keep him safe amidst the ocean’s gentle waves.

Qrow will keep him safe. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep. Once upon a time, the scent of the ocean had been nauseating to him; upon Qrow’s skin, however, he does not mind it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3! Chapters! Left! 
> 
> Let me know what you think if you're reading along!

“You still don’t like water.”

“No. My coworkers- my friends- died in the accident that hurt me.”

“…then why come back?”

Clover reaches out, pushing back Qrow’s hair crusted with salt and minerals away from slow-blinking, angular crimson eyes. “For you.”

And Qrow’s heart surges with a warmth that is nigh indescribable, his entire body pulsing with a tentative, yet aching want for this creature who does not resemble himself. He has been feeling this want more often as of late, unable to hold back- Clover is large for a human male, he knows, but the man fits so comfortably in his arms that he cannot help himself.

Clover smells of the sand. Of earth, of smells that Qrow cannot even comprehend. Sometimes, Clover brings him mint- it is the smell of his soap, what he uses to clean his skin. He brings flowers- they are the smell of his detergent, what he uses to clean his clothes. After dinner, he smells of meats and vegetables and spices which cause Qrow’s mouth to water, so Clover brings him these foods to sample, much to his delight. Bread, whatever it is, is the most delicious thing he has ever tasted, although it makes him feel terrible for two days afterwards- and yet, he cannot help but sink sharp teeth into Clover’s food another day, despite the other man’s rumbling, throaty laughter and gentle scolding.

But more importantly, Clover brings _himself_ each day. That is enough, Qrow realizes. After years and years of isolation, of being regarded as a monster in the only seas he has ever known, he finally has a companion. He has someone who does not look away. He has someone who is warm by his side, and not just the remains of those he loved in a different life.

_I love him._

The realization is not swift, he finds. In fact, this thought only bubbles into his mind the third year he and Clover are together for the summer months; Clover has apparently been challenged with learning how to braid hair by his students, so Qrow shows him how to do it upon kelp strands. He remembers braiding his sisters’ and his nieces’ hair, after all. Rather than practicing on kelp, however, Clover prefers braiding Qrow’s hair.

He does not like how tangled his hair becomes when he tries to undo these strands. However, he does quite enjoy being able to rest his head in Clover’s lap, breathing him in, closing his eyes as those short, unbearably warm fingers wind through his hair and tug and twist. It is soothing, and sensual, and everything he has ever wanted.

He does not want to let Clover go.

And so, he makes up his mind. Never in his lifetime had he thought he would ever be moved to do this, but as he begins to see Clover sporting more ‘jewelry’, as he calls it (the bracelet from a neighbour, he can accept, but rings will always make him uncomfortable with the way the webbing between his own fingers instantly aches at the thought of tearing it apart to jam a ring onto each digit, although he understands that Clover’s human hands have no such deficit) the idea changes from being a mere possibility to being his reality, the only thing upon his mind.

So, he makes it. He stays up late, laying his treasures out in his secret little cove so that the light filtering through the gaps in the rock above can cast sparkling, colourful reflections around this tidal pool. He gathers up his materials, and by the light of the moon and his sea glass, he weaves and weaves, putting this braiding skill to use for the first time in what feels like eons.

It takes Qrow another year to actually present it, however. He builds it out of new sprouts, carefully uprooting them before the weaving, then planting them so they may bloom in the depths; he gives it a full year to mature, to develop, to grow and to blossom to properly represent the recipient.

Finally, it is ready. He removes it from the sands, biting off the crawling roots and sealing the ends in his blood. His blood shall make it last forever, as long as it remains connected to the seas which run through his veins.

Clover does not understand what it is when he presents it. “Is this… a plant?” he asks, unused to seeing the breathtaking plants of the deep ocean.

Qrow silently takes his hand and slips the woven braid of seagrass over his wrist, licking it so the mucous will prevent it from slipping. The pride and anxiety battle within him without restraint. “You wait for me each year,” he whispers.

Clover smiles, albeit still baffled. “Of course I do. Eight months of storms aren’t so bad if you come in the summertime.”

“You could have left. Gone up to the sky.”

Clover shakes his head, laughing lightly. “No, I couldn’t have- my place is here now.”

Qrow beams, flashing sharpened teeth in joy. “This is my promise to you.”

 _And with it, my time_ , _you’ll take._

Clover does not understand still, however. So, Qrow gently takes his hand and lowers it into the water, his grin widening beyond measure as the buds instantly bloom, the seagrass growing vibrant and blinding in its glow; it emits a luminescence, an aura, almost, of reddish-black, matching the scales which shimmer in the sunlight upon Qrow’s tail.

Clover gasps, removing his hand from the water. The buds close, and the lights dim. Then, he looks up at Qrow. “I… thought you didn’t like jewelry.”

“This is not je-wel-ly,” he replies, stumbling around that word as he always does. “It is a promise.”

The sun is setting. It is time for Clover to leave. Quietly, he pushes his forehead against Qrow’s, whispering, “Thank you,” before he pulls away, packing up his things and heading back home with an efficiency that can only be gained by years of this routine.

Qrow does not mind his departure. It is a promise, and Clover has accepted it. He shall return-

Except the next day… the bracelet is gone.

Qrow almost _crumbles_ at the sight; he has half the mind to scream, to roar, to protest just _why Clover has done this to him_ when he does not understand the ramifications, when suddenly Clover slips off his shoes, just as always. His slacks fall to the floor, revealing his other, shorter clothes which are apparently more appropriate for swimming, according to the humans.

And wrapped around his ankle is Qrow’s promise chain.

Qrow’s eyes fill with tears without his awareness. Only when Clover slips into the water and brushes those tears away does he become cognisant of his weakness, of his vulnerability with this man. He shudders and whimpers, melting into the heat which no amount of sunbathing can provide, whispering, “I thought… you took it off.”

Clover shakes his head, laughing lightly. “When I’m with you, it can bloom in the water,” he explains, “and when I’m at work, the children won’t try and bother with it.”

“…why not take it off?” Qrow shudders at the mere thought, but carries on. “You take off everything else when you do certain things, do you not?”

And Clover merely sighs and smiles, and does something which he has never done before, shocking Qrow to the very core.

He kisses him.

He tastes like _home,_ Qrow learns in that chaste, quick contact. He tastes like home.

“Humans like to wear rings from the ones they love. We don’t take them off usually. I’d like to keep it on here, if it’s alright with you.”

And Qrow nods, for merfolk are the same, and this chain will bind them forever. It is time to move onwards, together.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alexa play careless whispers

His eyes linger upon it for far too long for either of them to deny it, so eventually, Clover murmurs, “You can ask, you know.”

“Oh, good,” Dr. Polendina murmurs with a rueful chuckle. “It’s intentional. I was just wondering whether you didn’t realize that there was a bunch of seaweed on your ankle.”

“It’s seagrass,” he replies on reflex, his cheeks growing warm as he adds, “a variety that grows in the deep ocean, apparently.”

The doctor leans his elbow upon the armrest of his wheelchair, raising a speculative brow at him. “That’s some deep-sea clover. So did someone give you that?”

For a moment, he is stunned, and then, Clover merely smiles and shrugs, much to Dr. Polendina’s irritation; ever since the start, the doctor has been curious about what (or who) has captured Clover’s imagination upon that lonely, isolated part of the seashore. Clover has never said the truth- he has absolutely no desire for anyone to begin to gossip, for the fishermen still speak of fairy tales and mysterious spirits which can grant immortality, and Clover refuses to put Qrow in harm’s way. The only enemy he should face is the Grimm. The Grimm, Qrow can face with ease; the terrors of humanity, however, are unknown to Qrow, and Clover shall protect him till the end.

When he realizes that, as usual, Clover will continue to keep his silence about the giver of this strange anklet, Dr. Polendina lets out a long, world-weary sigh. “You’re lucky that I can’t go down there myself to check that place out.”

“You wouldn’t,” Clover says easily, stretching now that the checkup is finished. “You’re too good a person.”

Grumbling, the elder man rolls with Clover to the front counter. “Yeah, yeah. You’d best be grateful.”

Chuckling, Clover waves goodbye as he heads to the door. “You know I am, Doctor. I’ll see you next week.”

Wryly, Dr. Polendina waves back. “Oh, I won’t see you around the market this weekend?”

Clover can only flush and walk away, hoisting his bag over his shoulder. It is larger than usual, with its camping gear and supplies for the whole weekend; the doctor’s eyes widen, understanding and amazement filling his face as Clover finally heads out the door.

His laughter rings in Clover’s head all the way to the seashore. Clover is not upset by the teasing, far from it; in fact, he is thankful to have Dr. Polendina, this steadfast friend reminding him of Atlas without ever prying too hard into his life. Thanks to the doctor’s help, he has recovered from his injuries. He also knows that the doctor has convinced many of the older townsfolk to not try and set Clover up with anyone in marriage, for Clover remembers how they used to gossip about his value as a partner upon his arrival.

The two never talk about it, but he knows that the older man wishes for nothing but Clover’s happiness. His silent blessing keeps Clover grounded, safe.

That is what spurs Clover on to go to the shore after work that Friday evening, the last day before a long weekend. The next week shall be a holiday, one of the rare times where the fishermen take time off to spend with their families, giving the children a chance to be at home with everyone for once.

Clover has only one person waiting for him, and for the first time, he is going to try and _stay._

Qrow’s delight at his arrival fades slightly when he realizes just how nervous Clover is, the man refusing to set up his usual blanket and cooler. “Will you leave soon?” Qrow murmurs, his guttural voice keening, resigned.

Gulping, Clover shakes his head. “I don’t have anything for the next few days. No work, no meetings, no appointments.”

Qrow blinks at him, confused.

“…can I stay with you, Qrow?”

He has always known it, but Qrow’s eyes are absolutely beautiful; the white, thin film of his third lid swipes slowly over crimson as Qrow registers the request, and then, his eyes widen, catching the rays of the setting sun. Crimson burns with umber flames, sparks of orange and yellow and pink reflecting in pupils which dilate, oblong and pointed. It is breathtaking.

Qrow holds out his hand. “Night shall come soon. We should go.”

He hesitates to grab on, a sudden wave of fear and anxiety crashing into him. Is this a good choice? The tiny contrarian voice in the back of his mind whispers, _You’re going to die, you know. They say people who follow creatures here never come back. They’re all spirited away._

He closes the distance, giving Qrow his hand. To his surprise, those long, webbed fingers which wrap tenderly around Clover’s digits tremble just as much as Clover’s. “Where are we going?”

Qrow sucks in a haggard breath before he whispers, “Home.”

_He’s scared, too._

That realization eases any fear in his heart, silencing that voice in his mind. Qrow would never harm him, and this is uncharted territory for the merman, too; this conviction only grows stronger as he puts his shoes into his bag, closing it tight before stepping into the water and allowing the seagrass anklet to bloom and give off its own light amidst the incoming nightfall, for Qrow’s face lights up with such _love_ when he sees it that Clover can scarcely breathe.

He does not mind if his clothes get wet; his bag is completely waterproof, and he has extra clothes and blankets within. So, he allows Qrow to gather him up in that strange way of his, pulling Clover to lay on his tall torso and scale-covered belly so that he can keep breathing whilst Qrow lazily propels them onwards. He feels so small like this, so insignificant, so helpless; yet, strangely enough, he does not mind. Qrow’s face is utterly at peace whenever Clover’s ear is pressed against his cold chest, listening to the merman’s slow, steady heartbeat.

“This is… a secret,” Qrow whispers after five minutes of gentle swimming.

Clover tears his eyes away from where they had been transfixed upon the sun sinking below the oceanic horizon to look up at Qrow, nodding slowly. “I’ll never tell a soul.”

And so, Qrow whispers, “Hold your breath,” and, once Clover complies with eyes tightly shut, they are underwater.

Clover immediately panics, his arms clinging tight around Qrow’s shoulders; he wants to cling to his neck, but the merman’s gills are delicate, so he clutching onto lean shoulders the best he can and tries his best not to break.

After what feels like hours, but is really less than a minute, they finally resurface. Clover gasps and coughs, clinging to Qrow, burying his forehead in the crook of his neck while he splutters. Qrow holds him close, rubbing his back, whispering in his clumsy, haggard voice, “I’m sorry. Take air. Breathe.”

When he can finally see straight again, Clover lifts his eyes, finally looking around. His breath hitches as Qrow gently sits him upon a rock raised above the water, his unnaturally long arms lifting the large man with ease. “This is home,” he says simply, his voice echoing throughout the chamber.

Clover nods, mouth slightly agape as he sets his pack down behind him, glancing around. _What in the world is this place?_ he wonders, absolutely awestruck. He knows logically that it must be one of the tiny coves to the north of the pier, and yet, he cannot wrap his mind around it; the walls seem to glisten thanks to the reflections of the setting sun’s rays dancing off the water and bouncing around the cavern, the light coming in through a few holes in the rocky ceiling, carved out by rain and time. He shifts in his seat; lining the walls of the cavern are little nooks littered with miscellaneous objects, the items having a strange, pristine order to them which Clover does not understand.

His heart leaps into his throat as he sees a crabbing cage with a familiar bag leaning against its side. It is the bag in which he had collected sea glass throughout the winter months all those years ago, after their first year together. Qrow has kept it here in perfect condition all this time.

It is a treasure, he realizes. The cage must be filled with his sea glass; when Qrow sees his fixation, he swims over, for the center of this cavern is still filled with water although the edges are raised and elevated, providing Clover dry land upon which he can rest. Qrow’s reach is long, able to undo the clasps with ease upon the chest, opening it up to indeed reveal an array of the sea glass, all of which Clover has given him over the years.

Slowly, Clover allows his eyes to move. His heart clenches in his chest as he sees an array of manmade weapons upon one edge. “Those took my family away,” Qrow explains.

Clover does not respond, for his eyes are locked onto the next shelf in the wall, protected from any potential waves or floods; there are five skulls lined neatly in a row, all far too big and oblong to belong to humans. Nausea and unease curl in his gut, but he swallows it down. Instead, he focuses on softening his voice further, for the echo would undoubtedly be painful to Qrow. “Is that…?”

Qrow nods solemnly, and then, strangely enough, flushes. “I… I have never brought another here,” he admits.

The man’s heart melts. He smiles, reaching out again to the merman. “Take me to them?”

Qrow’s smile of jagged, piercing teeth fills the room with more light than any sunset ever could.

Clover crawls onto the drier rock once Qrow brings him over from that central, tiny rock he had been perching upon to look closer at these four skulls. “Ruby and Yang, right?” he whispers, motioning to the smaller ones.

“You remember their names.”

“You love your nieces. Of course I would remember.”

Qrow’s hand tightens around Clover’s. “…yes. And those-“

“Raven and Taiyang and Summer.”

“Yes. Brother, sisters.”

Smiling, Clover bows his head in respect to these memorials upon the wall. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says softly. “Thank you for letting me be here.”

Qrow laughs gently, the sound rumbling through the cavern so lovingly that it strikes Clover’s heart. “They are happy.”

Sitting down, Clover allows his legs to hang knee-down in the water so Qrow can sit next to him, half-submerged. “I wish I could take you to my home,” he whispers.

Qrow shakes his head. “I wouldn’t like the land,” he says firmly.

Clover snorts despite himself, then leans his head onto Qrow’s shoulder, looking up. Through the holes in the ceiling, he can see the sky shifting through its myriad of warm, inviting colours as the sun sinks lower and lower behind the hidden horizon. “You know? I’m happy.”

Frowning, the merman asks, “Why?”

“If you could come onto land, I wouldn’t have learned to love the sea.”

“But… you don’t love it.”

“I do. Not like you, but I do.” He grins, the words clogging his throat for a moment as he finds off the flustered embarrassment threatening to take over his every nerve with this confession. “It’s… it’s your home, right? It brought me to you. I wouldn’t have healed without you, you know.” Then, he shivers, for the dampness of the clothes sticking to his skin is not helped by the chill of the cavern’s air; this spurs him onwards, giving him a reason to look away, to hide his flushed face as he unpacks his bag upon the larger, dry area at the back of the cavern. His usual beach towel is brought right to the edge of the water, the small packed cooler and thermos is set to the side, and a change of clothes is pulled out. He needs to warm up before he gets sick, he realizes faintly.

So, he begins removing these clothes, his pants and shirt draped over a nearby stalagmite to dry. Before he can pull out a small towel, however, he shudders, feeling a sharp nail scratch gently down his spine. “Qrow?” he breathes, shuddering and shaking. “Qrow, what-“

As he turns around, his words are stolen from him. Qrow stares up at him, illuminating by the rosy light filtering in through the cave; his lean, broad chest glistens, the scales which start around his waist glittering rose gold and fuchsia and obsidian in the waning rays, his delicate, yet powerful tail seeming to ripple under the surface of the water. Those large, webbed hands look unbearably inviting, and as he sees that foreign, strange tongue which has explored so much of him in curiosity flicker out to wet drying lips, a shiver of excitement rushes down his spine.

He steps ankle-deep into the water. He slips out of his last garments, exposed and bare for Qrow to see. Swallowing thickly, he whispers, “I have something for you.”

Qrow’s eyes are wide, taking in Clover’s hesitant, wanting form in silent awe as Clover reaches down, grabbing something out of his bag. He has been saving it for a long, long time; his fingers tremble as he pulls out a small rope chain, woven intricately with the help of the fishermen upon the docks. He grabs Qrow’s hand and gently ties this chain around it, carefully knotting it so that it shall not come undone. “This used to be a tradition on this coast,” he murmurs softly. “Fishermen gave it to their partners. It promised their return home, no matter what.” Wryly, he adds, “I wasn’t exactly able to make one of deep-sea clover like you, but-“

Qrow licks the chain to slick it against his skin, then moves forward, pressing his forehead against Clover’s chest. “I shall not remove it, even in the winter.”

“Okay.” He shudders as Qrow moves against him, drawing him flush against his body. “When humans are together, they-“

Qrow’s lips find his. There is no need to even ask; that night, Qrow consumes him in ways he had never even imagined, filling Clover up with a warmth he had never known the merman could hold. It is painful, and glorious, and despite how clumsy they are thanks to all the differences and uncertainties and unknowns between them, it is everything he has never known he wanted.

When the dawn comes and Clover is still spent and weary, he finds himself covered in his blanket, resting atop of Qrow’s sleeping, floating form in this small tide pool, the merman’s ethereal, beautiful face illuminated by a blue sky above. Clover closes his eyes and sinks into Qrow. He is content.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter left! Let me know what you think if you're reading along <3

There is no time of the year more precious, more dear, to Clover than the summertime, Qrow slowly begins to realize; he sees the way Clover’s face lights up without fail every single year when Qrow returns, any unease upon his brow melting away. At first, Qrow thinks it is merely exaggeration- if anyone is contented, it is Qrow, who has nothing else in this world but Clover- but as time passes and he returns with more and more scars, more and more evidence of attacks from the Grimm along the way, he begins to understand that Clover cannot bear to say goodbye at the end of each sunny season. Despite everyone else Clover has in his life upon the earth, it is here, where the oceans meet the shore, that he finds his happiness.

He had not lied all those years ago. He had chosen Qrow for life.

Qrow cannot stand the separation, either. He used to think his cocoon of seagrass and coral and sand was warm, but nothing can ever compare to the heat of Clover’s flesh, skin, tongue, heart. The waters are frigid without Clover’s embrace. It is a sad, but undeniable truth.

And yet, Qrow does not feel bitter about this. He does not remember how many moons have passed since the passing of his pod. The memories have been lost to the seas, swept away as time and salty waters carve out new, unknown structures into his cove upon every return to shore. All he knows is that he used to be far lonelier before Clover’s arrival.

Now, however, it is different. Each year, the second day after his return, Clover brings a human dinner for them to share. Clover calls it an anniversary, whereas Qrow simply calls it the best way to come off hibernation. Over the years, the recipes are perfected to ensure it agrees with Qrow as well, but eventually, they taste heavenly; the duo spreads out food upon the beach in their little nook, spending their time together feasting, filling up Qrow’s belly and Clover’s heart after their months and months apart.

Food tastes better with Clover. Clover insists it is simply thanks to human spices. Qrow knows it is something more, but there is no need to name it, for eventually he realizes that it does not matter; Clover’s taste and home and heart are so inextricably intertwined with Qrow’s very being that there is little separating them now.

The anniversaries do something else, however. They teach Qrow to count the years where he had previously only focused on lunar cycles and the brilliance of the sky above him, the loneliness ever-pervasive in his heart. The years had never mattered to Qrow before, but now… they mean everything.

After ten, Clover’s hair begins to shimmer like starlight. After fifteen, the shadows cast upon his face from the darkness of Qrow’s secret cove are more from wrinkles that the lack of light. After twenty, his voice begins to grow hoarser, the injuries of the past coming to haunt him as his body begins to weaken.

Clover is fading. This creature who lies so willingly in his arms is fading.

The thought makes him weep, that fear of loss only growing stronger by the day as Clover’s knees and back pop every time he stands up from the pier. Clover talks of the little ones he had first taught getting married and having children and finding careers, all with an air of proud contentment, as if he has no idea that his own skin is growing paler, his youthful bluster and energy disappearing. The only part of him that remains unchanged is the chain around his ankle, growing looser as Clover’s muscle fades to lean, toned flesh that slowly grows weaker with time.

After twenty-three years, twenty-three blissful summers full of reunions, and idle days, and unions of hearts and flesh, and tearful, loving goodbyes, Qrow finally brings this up to Clover. To his surprise, Clover merely blinks at him, then throws his head back and laughs.

“But why is it funny?” he protests, peering up from Clover’s lap.

Clover leans down, pressing a kiss against his forehead once he is finally able to calm down his laughter. “Qrow,” he chuckles, his voice still so soft and gentle to avoid hurting Qrow’s sensitive ears, “of _course_ I’m going grey. I’m not a young man anymore… and neither are you, for that matter.”

Qrow stares at him, confused. What in the world is Clover speaking about?

Clover continues, his expression strangely at ease despite being presented with his mortality. “I can’t stand as straight up as I used to, and my joints ache terribly in the winter. I _hope_ this isn’t what youth has always been!”

Qrow is stunned. “Do humans not… not fear-“

“We do fear passing, and aging, and all sorts of things,” Clover says immediately, but his eyes, wrinkled and creased, still shine with the brilliance of the past, “but I’m not most humans, you know.” He brushes Qrow’s hair out of his eyes, then whispers, “I’m… I’m glad that we’re the same, though.”

Blinking at him blankly, Qrow waits. He does not understand.

Clover sighs, then explains, “I was worried merfolk lived longer or shorter than humans, but we’ve been aging together. It’s… it’s nice.”

 _…what?_ “You… aren’t scared?”

Clover smiles, shaking his head. “I only have one fear.”

“What’s that?”

“That you won’t be here one year come summer. Or that I won’t be here when you come.” He takes in a long, wavering breath, the sound far more feeble than it used to be. “I would like to spend my final days with you.”

Qrow’s breath catches in his throat. The thought that Clover will not be here when summer arrives and when Qrow returns to the shore- the thought that he would disappear, that he would no longer be there to hold, to welcome, to cherish Qrow-

It is horrifying, the emptiness that loneliness would bring.

Clover is still utterly at ease, fingers running through Qrow’s hair comfortably. “You look beautiful with silver hair, you know.”

Those words cause a rush of sound, of white noise, to flood Qrow’s senses, the merman lying flat upon his back so he may look up at the stars, absolutely shell-shocked. He has aged? He has changed? Merfolk live far longer than humans, so since when-

His brain skips, stutters, halts, focusing upon one sole image: the promise chain.

 _It… actually worked. I gave him my time. My blood given, my wish granted._ He reels from these realizations, dizzy and fatigued and baffled all at once. _Clover… he does not even know._

He has never told Clover the true meaning of that chain, after all- given to someone so that merfolk may age together with the one they have chosen as their mate. They have always been mere rumours in Qrow’s pod, but now…

Clover’s brow is furrowed, concern blossoming over his features. Plaintively, Qrow lays his forehead against the man’s stomach, lost in thought. Since when has he last seen himself? Since when has he last been recognizable as a merman in the prime of his life?

…and why is he not upset by this loss of youth?

 _It was my choice, but I just… forgot about it._ “What do I look like to you now?”

Clover chuckles, then opens up his Scroll. It’s some new model, some tiny device which Qrow’s longer fingers no longer have any hope of using; apparently Clover’s healer’s daughter had shown him how to use it, but Qrow has long since given up on keeping up with humanity’s incredible strides in technology. He sits silently as Clover opens it up, squinting and frowning as he tries to find the right buttons upon a shimmering holoscreen with his failing eyes, and then, he presses down. There is a small click, and Clover turns the screen towards Qrow.

The image he sees before him is completely different from the reflection which had once looked back at him in the ocean waves. His dark hair is more grey than not, large eyes thinner, lined with laugh lines and crow’s feet that have grown far deeper than he could have ever expected. His cheeks are thinner, sagging slightly; even the luster of his scales is lesser than it once was.

Qrow swallows thickly, looking back up at Clover. At some point, all that became natural was being next to Clover in his waking months; all he had paid attention to was the man. Especially now that Clover no longer works with the little ones (although what exactly the term ‘retired’ means, he’ll never truly know) he is with Qrow every moment of the summer, the man having built a mini-dwelling within this tiny abode of theirs. All he has looked at for _years_ is Clover.

When had he stopped noticing that the fish nibble his scales less? Since when had he stopped noticing the way it took longer for his own muscles to respond, that it took more tries to catch his prey, that he is slower when fighting off the Grimm?

But then again, he realizes, Clover, too, does not realize how he has changed- how his heart has grown calmer over the years, how he smiles more at the little things.

How he no longer looks so lonely when he looks up at the sky.

Qrow’s heart skips a beat. He has always wanted to ask more about the sky, about what it had been like to commandeer the ocean of blue which mirrors Qrow’s own home; since he had found out the truth behind Clover’s injuries, however, he has never truly broached that subject. It was always too raw, too sensitive, of a topic to touch.

Since when have those wounds healed over, turned into scars- become beautiful, nostalgic things in their own right?

He traces Clover’s nose with one long nail to grab his attention, then points to the gaps in the roof of their cove. They have grown marginally wider over the years, although neither of them mind that fact. “Tell me,” he whispers, trying his best to hide his hopeful yearning, his curiosity, which he has tamped down since that day when he had realized that Clover was just as broken and lonely as he had been, trapped in the long, nigh-immortal life of the merfolk, “tell me of the sky.”

The smile which blossoms upon Clover’s lips, as lined and thin as they may be, is more beautiful than the seagrass around his ankle could ever be. “…I’d like that.”

And just like that, his fears and discomforts melt away. He nuzzles into Clover’s lap, shivering in desire as Clover’s fingers brush his gills, caressing sensitive flesh tenderly. If Clover believes it so, then perhaps this thing called death is not something to fear, after all.

…it’s not as lonely to think about anymore. Not with Clover here.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the last chapter! It's a bit shorter than the others, but I hope you enjoy it :D 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this fic in the comments! I'd love to hear from you <3

The gravel crunching underneath his feet shall never change, constantly shifting and clinking as he makes his way down to the shoreline. No matter how many storms crash into this coast, no matter how many thunderous rainfalls and piercing tides, this little path creeping over the hills away from the town is still so serene, so silent. It is strange to see how this path continues to be so untouched, occupied only by him even after all of these years; the roots of this community run far too deep to ever allow children to even _think_ about coming to this haunted, ghostly part of the beach, after all.

At least, he assumes this is the case. Occasionally when he is at the market, his old students- now parents of older, curious children in their own right- like to tease him whenever they catch him stocking up on preserves and little sweets. “You’ve bought the same things each summer since so long ago,” they always say, helping him pack purchases in his tiny rolling shopping bag. “Who in the world eats it all?”

“Perhaps I have a sweet tooth,” he always retorts.

They merely sigh and shake their heads in rueful amusement, for they remember all of the years when Mr. Ebi, their favourite schoolteacher, had refused to accept any form of sweets or treats. They know there is someone else at play here, but they do not pry.

In contrast, their children are not a fan of this strange old man who has never been one of the fishermen. They whisper about how he is friends with a demon, how he came from Atlas long ago- how he had almost drowned in the waters, and had since traded his soul with this demon in exchange for survival. Every single time he hears these whispers, it takes all of Clover’s feeble strength not to throw his head back and roar in laughter, for how in the world could he ever explain that the children are more correct than their parents could ever be?

Qrow is not a demon, however. He has always been Clover’s second chance- a chance which he has spent wisely, which he has never once regretted.

He never corrects them, though. It is safer for these little ones to stay away from the beach, thinking of demons and monsters and Grimm which could attack them upon those isolated shores; Clover is nowhere near spry enough to be able to chase them away, or to react in time should they ever be attacked by a creature of Grimm. He is too old to fight, and he does not want any of them to come to harm.

His former students are always embarrassed by these comments, though. He insists that he does not mind, but they apologize anyways, giving him little extras throughout the market. He does not complain- he knows someone who is more than happy to have extra clams and the occasional treat of spun sugar. The village sweet shop owner is an artisan in his own right, and his little candy goldfishes delight Qrow to no end, refracting golden-yellow light as if they are made of glass, just like his resplendent piles of dainty, sweet little treasures.

So, each year, Clover takes all of these little gifts and rolls them down to the beach, just as he always does. The journey takes quite a while, and he often finds himself missing the quickness of his youth, if only to be able to watch the sunrise upon the beach. Now, even when he leaves an hour before dawn, he is barely able to make it, and his aching bones are not a very big fan of the chilly morning air, even in the summertime.

It does not matter, though. The summer arrives as it always does, and once he arrives upon the beach, he removes his slip-on shoes with careful, meticulous motions, ensuring he does not throw out his back with the movements. He is not too feeble yet; it is easy to pack things away without even a thought after all of these years, leaving the old man to enjoy the silence upon the first day of summer as the dawn sets the sky alight, the blue washing over the world just as brilliant as the bits of sea glass he brings with him without fail each year. He does not play music upon his Scroll anymore to fill the silence, for the melodies of the sea are enough.

And anyways, he prefers listening to music with someone else these days. Holding hands and half-dancing in the moonlight in their little cove is the best way to enjoy music, he thinks.

By the sunset, there is an unnatural splash out in the distance. He does not perk up, instead just tucking away his thermos with knobby, lean fingers in his pack. Then, he clasps his hands in his lap and waits, and waits, and waits, his favourite piece of glass clutched in his hand as he drops his ankles into the water, his joints creaking loudly with the motion. He does not mind; even with the sun setting over the distant horizon, a creeping fire burning the world alive with colour, the enchanted seagrass around his ankle still blooms beautifully, glimmering with an iridescent glow.

He likes that it still glows. It is like a lighthouse, he thinks- in the water, it’ll guide his love home.

And guide him, it does. A spindly, wiry, webbed hand with a corded fisherman’s promise bracelet around the wrist reaches out to clasp his shin gently, a head of shimmering silver hair breaking through the water. He reaches down without hesitation, brushing that long hair out of crimson, thin, almond-shaped eyes, creased and heavy-set with age. “Should I cut your hair this year?” he whispers. “Or we could braid it. It’s grown quite long while you were asleep.”

Thin, translucent white eyelids blink lazily across the horizontal axis of those eyes before they close, creased into crescent, smiling moons. A dripping forehead is pressed against Clover’s shins. “You’re not very good at braiding,” Qrow murmurs slowly, his gruff voice hoarse, words slow and clumsy after months of sleep and inactivity.

“I’ll shave it off then?”

“Shave?”

“Cut it all off.”

“…no, no no no. I would look like a… gull egg.”

Clover chuckles, leaning down slowly. Qrow’s face lifts out of the water, the two creatures meeting to kiss comfortingly, to relish in this warmth they have both been waiting for. There is no passion anymore, but neither of them mind as they pull apart and look through the piece of sea glass in Clover’s hands and chuckle under the last rays of the sun, signalling their first night together for the year; they are old, and they are still in love, even after all this time, and that is all that matters.

_**-fin-** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Follow me on [Tumblr](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com) for new fics/art/podfics, or message me on Discord (fp#8010) if you'd like to chat or are interested in joining a teeny general fandom server! 
> 
> I've also started a podcast recently which you can find [here!](https://anchor.fm/faulty-paragon/episodes/The-Good-Beans-Episode-1---Kingdom-Hearts-2-Eternal-Summer-Vacation-enjorh)
> 
> Here are my [other FG works!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898392) I've now got almost 530k of FG content alone, so take a look!
> 
>  _Other RWBY series:_  
>  If you want to see more of Qrow in canon, check out my [Qrow Branwen-Centric Fic series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448095)
> 
> Here are [AUs both set in canon and out](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690948) for RWBY. 
> 
> If you want to stay completely within RWBY's canon, here is [another series of completely canon-compliant fics for you.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815229)
> 
> If you're looking for a long series in canon and like Team JNPR, here's a series that's a [rewrite of Vol. 1-6 through Pyrrha and Nora's eyes!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448071)
> 
> Cheers for reading, y'all! Let me know what you thought of this fic, and I'll see you around!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!


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